Quicksilver sue 








LAURA 


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RICHARDS 










Class C 


Book. 




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COPVRIGHT DEPOSITS 


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QUICKSILVER SUE 











READING CLARICE’S LETTER 

















QUICKSILVER SUE 




JLcT 




BY 


LAURA E. RICHARDS 

Author of “Captain January,” etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

W. D. STEVENS 



NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 
1899 



Copyright, 1899, by 
The Century Co. 

TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



c t 

i •* » 


FIRST COPY, 


The,DeVinne Press 




<S ajj. V g g ‘ 


W - %% 





V 


TO 

C. I. H. 

WITH MUCH LOVE 

















































































































































































CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I SOMETHING EXCITING .... 
II THE NEW-COMER. 

III MARY’S VIEW. 

IV EARLY IN THE MORNING 

V THE PICNIC. 

VI AT THE HOTEL. 

VII THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 

VIII THE CIRCUS. 

IX THE LONELY ROAD. 

X ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


vii 


PAGE 

I 

16 

34 

5 ° 

67 

89 

105 

122 

140 

158 






































































































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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

READING CLARICE’S LETTER . . . Frontispiece 

PAGE 

MISS CLARICE PACKARD RUSTLED INTO HER 

FATHER’S PEW.27 

ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC .... 63 

EACH CAME FORWARD AND SHOOK CLARICE’S 

GLOVED HAND SOLEMNLY .... 79 

“MARY AND I HAVE PARTED — PARTED FOR¬ 
EVER” .113 

AT THE CIRCUS.137 

MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW 145 


IX 




































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QUICKSILVER SUE 



QUICKSILVER SUE 


CHAPTER I 

SOMETHING EXCITING 

OTHER ! Mother! he has a daugh¬ 
ter ! Is n’t that perfectly fine ? ” 
Mrs. Penrose looked up wearily; 
her head ached, and Sue was so noisy ! 

“ Who has a daughter ? ” she asked. “ Can’t 
you speak a little lower, Sue? Your voice 
goes through my head like a needle. Who 
is it that has a daughter ? ” 

Sue’s bright face fell for an instant, and she 
swung her sunbonnet impatiently; but the 
next moment she started again at full speed. 

“ The new agent for the Pashmet Mills, 
Mother. Everybody is talking about it. They 
are going to live at the hotel. They have 





2 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


taken the best rooms, and Mr. Binns has had 
them all painted and papered,— the rooms, I 
mean, of course,—and new curtains, and every¬ 
thing. Her name is Clarice, and she is fif¬ 
teen, and very pretty; and he is real rich —” 

“ Very rich,” corrected her mother, with a 
little frown of pain. 

“ Very rich,” Sue went on ; “and her clothes 
are simply fine ; and — and — oh, Mother, 
is n’t it elegant ? ” 

“ Sue, where have you been ? ” asked her 
mother, rousing herself. (Bad English was 
one of the few things that did rouse Mrs. 
Penrose.) “ Whom have you been talking 
with, child ? I am sure you never hear Mary 
Hart say ‘ is n’t it elegant ’! ” 

“ Oh! Mary is a schoolma’am, Mother. 
But I never did say it before, and I won’t 
again — truly I won’t. Annie Rooney told 
me, and she said it, and so I did n’t think. 
Annie is going to be waitress at the hotel, 
you know, and she’s just as excited as I am 
about it.” 

“ Annie Rooney is not a suitable compan¬ 
ion for you, my daughter, and I am not inter- 


SOMETHING EXCITING 


3 


ested in hotel gossip. Besides, my head 
aches too much to talk any more.” 

“ I d go and tell Mary ! ” said Sue. 

“Will you hand me my medicine before 
you go, Sue?” 

But Sue was already gone. The door 
banged, and the mother sank back with a 
weary, fretful sigh. Why was Sue so im¬ 
petuous, so unguided? Why was she not 
thoughtful and considerate, like Mary Hart? 

Sue whirled upstairs like a breeze, and 
rushed into her own room. The room, a 
pleasant, sunny one, looked as if a breeze 
were blowing in it all day long. A jacket 
was tossed on one chair, a dress on another. 
The dressing-table was a cheerful litter of 
ribbons, photographs, books, papers, and hats. 
(This made it hard to find one’s brush and 
comb sometimes; but then, it was convenient 
to have the other things where one could get 
at them.) There was a writing-table, but the 
squirrel lived on that; it was the best place 
to put the cage, because he liked the sun. 
(Sue never would have thought of moving 
the table somewhere else and leaving the 


4 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


space for the cage.) And the closet was en¬ 
tirely full and running over. The walls were 
covered with pictures of every variety, from 
the Sistine Madonna down to a splendid four- 
in-hand cut out of the “ Graphic.” Most of 
them had something hanging on the frame — 
a bird’s nest, or a branch of barberries, or a 
tangle of gray moss. Sometimes the picture 
could still be seen; again, it could not, except 
when the wind blew the adornment aside. 
Altogether, the room looked as if some one 
had a good time in it, and as if that some one 
were always in a hurry ; and this was the case. 

“Shall I telephone,” said Sue, “or shall I 
send a pigeon ? Oh, I can’t stop to go out 
to the dove-cote ; I ’ll telephone.” 

She ran to the window, where there was a 
curious arrangement of wires running across 
the street to the opposite house. She rang a 
bell and pulled a wire, and another bell jin¬ 
gled in the distance. Then she took up an 
object which looked like (and indeed was) the 
half of a pair of opera-glasses with the glass 
taken out. Holding this to her mouth, she 
roared softly : “ Hallo, Central! Hallo! ” 


SOMETHING EXCITING 


5 


There was a pause; then a voice across the 
street replied in muffled tones: “ Hallo ! What 
number ? ” 

“Number five hundred and seven. Miss 
Mary Hart.” 

Immediately a girl appeared at the oppo¬ 
site window, holding the other barrel of the 
opera-glass to her lips. 

“ Hallo ! ” she shouted. “ What do you 
want ? ” 

“Oh, Mary, have you heard?” 

“No. What?” 

“Why, there’s a girl coming to live at the 
hotel — coming to stay all summer! Her 
father is agent of the Pashmet Mills. She 
is two years older than we are. Is n’t that 
perfectly fine, Mary? I ’m just as excited 
as I can be about it. I can’t stand still a 
minute.” 

“ So I see,” said Mary Hart, who had a 
round, rosy, sensible face, and quiet blue eyes. 
“ But do try to stand still, Sue ! People don’t 
jump up and down when they are telephon- 
ing, you know.” 

“ Oh! I can’t help it, Mary. My feet just 


6 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


seem to go of themselves. Is n’t it perfectly 
splendid, Mary? You don’t seem to care one 
bit. I ’m sorry I told you, Mary Hart.” 

“ Oh, no, you ’re not! ” said Mary, good- 
naturedly. “ But how can I tell whether it is 
splendid or not, Sue, before I have seen the 
girl ? What is her name ? ” 

“ Oh ! did n’t I tell you ? Clarice Packard. 
Is n’t that a perfectly lovely name? Oh, 
Mary, I just can’t wait to see her; can you ? 
It’s so exciting! I thought there was never 
going to be anything exciting again, and now 
just see! Don’t you hope she will know how 
to act, and dress up, and things? I do.” 

“ Suppose you come over and tell me more 
about it,” Mary suggested. “ I must shell 
the peas now, and I ’ll bring them out on the 
door-step; then we can sit and shell them 
together while you tell me.” 

“ All right; I ’ll come right over.” 

Sue turned quickly, prepared to dash out 
of the room as she had dashed into it, but 
caught her foot in a loop of the wire that she 
had forgotten to hang up, and fell headlong 
over a chair. The chair and Sue came 


SOMETHING EXCITING 


7 


heavily against the squirrel’s cage, sending 
the door, which was insecurely fastened, fly¬ 
ing open. Before Sue could pick herself up, 
Master Cracker was out, frisking about on the 
dressing-table, and dangerously near the open 
window. 

“ Oh! what shall I do?” cried Sue. “That 
horrid old wire! Cracker, now be good, 
that’s a dear fellow ! Here, I know! I had 
some nuts somewhere—I know I had ! Wait, 
Cracker, do wait! ” 

But Cracker was not inclined to wait, and 
while Sue was rummaging various pockets 
which she thought might contain the nuts, he 
slipped quietly out of the window and scut¬ 
tled up the nearest tree, chattering triumph¬ 
antly. Sue emerged from the closet, very red 
in the face, and inclined to be angry at the 
ingratitude of her pet. “ After all the trouble 
I have had teaching him to eat all kinds of 
things he did n’t like ! ” she exclaimed. “ Well, 
at any rate, I sha’n’t have any more eggs to 
boil hard, and Katy said I could n’t have any 
more, anyhow, because I cracked the sauce¬ 
pans when I forgot them. And, anyhow, he 


8 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


was n’t very happy, and I know I should just 
hate to live in a cage, even with a whirligig 
— though it must be fun at first.” 

Consoling herself in this wise, Sue flashed 
down the stairs, and almost ran over her little 
sister Lily, who was coming up. 

“Oh, Susie,” said Lily, “will you help me 
with my dolly’s dress ? I have done all I 
can without some one to show me, and Mam¬ 
ma’s head aches so she can’t, and Katy is 
ironing.” 

“Not now, Lily; don’t you see I am in a 
terrible hurry ? Go and play, like a good 
little girl! ” 

“But I ’ve no one to play with, Susie,” said 
the child, piteously. 

“ Find some one, then, and don’t bother! 
Perhaps I ’ll show you about the dress after 
dinner, if I have time.” 

Never stopping to look at the little face 
clouded with disappointment, Sue ran on. 
There was no cloud on her own face. She 
was a vision of sunshine as she ran across 
the street, her fair hair flying, her hazel eyes 
shining, her brown holland dress fluttering in 
the wind, 


SOMETHING EXCITING 


9 


The opposite house looked pleasant and 
cheerful. The door stood open, and one 
could look through the long, narrow hall and 
into the garden beyond, where the tall purple 
phlox seemed to be nodding to the tiger- 
lilies that peeped round the edge of the front 
door. The door was painted green, and had 
a bright brass knocker; and the broad stone 
step made a delightful seat when warmed 
through and through by the sun, as it was 
now. The great horse-chestnut trees in front 
of the house made just enough shade to keep 
one’s eyes from being dazzled, but not enough 
to shut out the sunbeams which twinkled 
down in green and gold, and made the front 
dooryard almost a fairy place. 

Mary came out, bringing a basket of peas 
and a shining tin dish; she sat down, and 
made room for Sue beside her with a smile. 

“ This is more satisfactory than telephon¬ 
ing,” she said. “ Now, Sue, take a long breath 
and tell me all about it.” 

Sue breathed deep, and began again the 
wonderful tale: 

“ Why, I met Annie Rooney this morning, 
when I went down for the mail. You re- 


IO QUICKSILVER SUE 

member Annie, who used to live with us ? 
Mamma does n’t like her much, but she was 
always nice to me, and she always likes to 
stop and talk when I meet her. Well! and 
so she told me. They may be here any day 
now, Mr. Packard and his daughter. Her 
name is Clarice—oh ! I told you that, did n’t I ? 
Don’t you think it’s a perfectly lovely name, 
Mary? It sounds like a book, you know, 
with long, golden hair, and deep, unfathom¬ 
able eyes, and — ” 

“ I never saw a book with golden hair,” said 
Mary, “ to say nothing of unfathomable eyes.” 

“Mary, now stop teasing me! You know 
perfectly well what I mean. I am sure she 
must be beautiful with a name like that. Oh, 
dear! I wish I had a name like that, instead of 
this stupid one. Susan ! I don’t see how any 
one could possibly be so cruel as to name 
a child Susan. When I grow up, Mary, do 
you know what I am going to do ? I made 
up my mind as soon as I heard about Clarice 
Packard. I ’m going to appear before the 
President and ask him to change my name.” 

“ Sue, what do you mean ? ” 


SOMETHING EXCITING 


“ My dear, it ’s true ! It’s what they do. 
I ’ve read about it somewhere. It has to be 
done by act of legislature, and of course the 
President tells Congress, and they see about 
it. I should like to have that same name — 
Clarice. It’s the prettiest name I ever heard 
of; don’t you think so, Mary? But of course 
I can’t be a copy-cat, so I am going to have 
it Faeroline — you remember that story 
about Faeroline ? Faeroline Medora, or else 
Medora Faeroline. Which do you think 
would be prettiest, Mary ? ” 

“ I like Sue better than either ! ” said Mary, 
stoutly. 

“ Oh, Mary, you do discourage me some¬ 
times ! Well, where was I ? ” 

“You had got as far as her name,” said 
Mary. 

“ Oh, yes. Well, and her father is rich. I 
should think he must be enormously rich. And 
she must be beautiful,— I am quite sure she 
must; and — she dresses splendidly, Annie 
says; and — and they are coming to live at 
the hotel; and she is fifteen — I told you 
that ? And — well, I suppose that is all I really 


12 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


know just yet, Mary ; but I feel a great, great 
deal more. I feel, somehow, that this is a very 
serious event in my life, Mary. You know 
how I have been longing for something excit¬ 
ing to happen. Only yesterday, don’t you 
remember, I was saying that I did n’t believe 
anything would ever happen, now that we had 
finished ‘ Ivanhoe ’; and now just see ! ” 

“ I should think they would try to get a 
house, if they are well off,” said practical 
Mary. “ It must be horrid, living at a hotel.” 

“ Oh, Mary, you have no imagination ! I 
think it would be perfectly delightful to stay 
at a hotel. I ’ve always just longed to; it 
has been one of my dreams that some day we 
might give up housekeeping and live at the 
hotel; but of course we never shall.” 

“ For pity’s sake ! I should hope not, Sue, 
with a good home of your own ! Why, what 
would there be to like about it ? ” 

“ Oh, it would be so exciting! People 
coming and going all the time, and bells ring¬ 
ing, and looking-glasses everywhere, and — 
and never knowing what one is going to have 
for dinner, and all kinds of good things in lit- 


SOMETHING EXCITING 


13 


tie covered dishes, just like ‘ Little Kid Milk, 
table appear!’ Don’t you remember? And— 
it would be so exciting! You know I love ex¬ 
citement, Mary, and I just hate to know what I 
am going to have for dinner.” 

“ I know I am going to have peas for din¬ 
ner,” said Mary,— “at least, I want them. 
Sue, you have n’t shelled a dozen peas; I shall 
have to go and get Bridget to help me.” 

“ Oh, no ; I will, I truly will ! ” cried Sue; 
and she shelled with ardor for a few minutes, 
the pods flying open and the peas rattling 
merrily into the tin basin. 

“Doyou remember the three peas in the 
Andersen story ? ” she said presently. “ I al¬ 
ways used to wish I had been one of those — 
the one that grew up, you know, and made a 
little garden for the sick girl. Would n’t it 
be lovely, Mary, to come up out of the ground, 
and find you could grow, and put out leaves, 
and then have flowers ? Only, I would be 
sweet peas,—not this kind,—and look so lovely, 
just like sunset wings, and smell sweet for sick 
people, and — Mary ! Mary Hart! who is 


H QUICKSILVER SUE 

Sue was looking down the street eagerly. 
Mary looked too, and saw a carriage coming 
toward them with two people in it. 

“No one we know, I think,” said Mary. 

“ They are strangers ! ” cried Sue, in great 
excitement,— “ a man and a girl. Mary Hart, 
I do believe it is Mr. Packard and Clarice ! 
It must be. They are strangers, I tell you ! I 
never saw either of them in my life. And look 
at her hat! Mary, will you look at her hat ? ” 

“I am looking at it!” said Mary. “Yes, 
Sue ; I should n’t wonder if you were right. 
Where are you going ? ” 

“Indoors, so that lean stare. You would n’t 
be so rude, Mary, as to stare at her where 
she can see you ? You are n’t going to stare 
at all! Oh, Mary, what’s the use of not being 
human t You are too poky for anything. A 
stranger,— and that girl, of all the world,— 
and not have a good look at her? Mary, I 
do find you trying sometimes. Well, I am 
going. Good-by.” 

And Sue flew into the house, and flattened 
herself behind the window-curtain, where she 
could see without being seen. Mary was 



SOMETHING EXCITING 


15 


provoked for a moment, but her vexation 
passed with the cracking of a dozen pods. It 
was impossible to be long vexed with Sue. 

As the gay carriage passed, she looked up 
quietly for a moment, to meet the unwinking 
stare of a pair of pale blue eyes, which seemed 
to be studying her as a new species in crea¬ 
tion. A slender girl, with very light hair and 
eyebrows, a pale skin, and a thin, set mouth — 
not pretty, Mary thought, but with an “ air,” 
as Sue would say, and very showily dressed. 
The blouse of bright changeable silk, with 
numberless lace ruffles, the vast hat, like a 
flower-garden and bird-shop in one, the gold 
chain and lace parasol, shone strangely in 
the peaceful village street. 

Mary returned the stare with a quiet look, 
then looked down at her peas again. 

“What, oh, what shall we do,” 
she said to herself, quoting a rhyme her father 
had once made,— 

“ What, oh, what shall we do 
With our poor little Quicksilver Sue ? ” 


CHAPTER II 

THE NEW-COMER 

B UE PENROSE went home that day 
feeling, as she had said to Mary, 
that something serious had hap¬ 
pened. The advent of a stranger, and that 
stranger a girl not very far from her own and 
Mary’s age, was indeed a wonderful thing. 
Hilton was a quiet village, and it happened 
that she and Mary had few friends of their 
own age. They had never felt the need of 
any, being always together from babyhood. 
Mary would never, it might be, feel the need; 
but Sue was always a dreamer of dreams, and 
always longed for something new, something 
different from every-day pleasures and cares. 
When the schooners came up the river, in 
summer, to load with ice from Mr. Hart’s 

16 


THE NEW-COMER 


17 


great ice-houses, Sue always longed to go 
with them when they sailed. There were 
little girls on them sometimes; she had seen 
them. She had gone so far as to beg Mr. 
Hart to let her go as stewardess on board 
the “ Rosy Dawn.” She felt that a voyage 
on a vessel with such a name must be joy in¬ 
deed. But Mr. Hart always laughed at her 
so, it would have been hard to have patience 
with him if he were not so dear and good. 
She longed to go away on the trains, too, or 
to have the pair of cream-colored horses that 
were the pride of the livery-stable — to take 
them and the buckboard, and drive away, 
quite away, to new places, where people 
did n’t have their dresses made over every 
year, and where they had new things every 
day in the shop-windows. Her dreams al¬ 
ways took her away from Hilton; for it 
seemed impossible that anything new or 
strange should ever come there to the sleepy 
home village. She and Mary had always 
made their plays out of books, and so had 
plenty of excitement in that way; but Hilton 
itself was asleep,—her mother said so,— and it 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


t8 

would never wake up. And now, all in a 
moment, the scene was changed. Here, into 
the very village street, had come a stranger— 
a wonderful girl looking like a princess, with 
jewels and gold chains and shimmering silk; 
and this girl was going to lead a kind of 
fairy life at a marvelous place called a hotel, 
where the walls were frescoed, and you could 
make up stories about them all the time you 
were eating your dinner; and the dinner it¬ 
self was as different as possible from a plain 
brown leg of mutton, which Katy would al¬ 
ways do over three times in just the same 
order: first a pie, then a fricassee, then mince¬ 
meat. Katy was so tiresome ! But this girl 
with the fair hair and the beautiful name 
would have surprises three times a day, sur¬ 
prises with silver covers,— at least, they 
looked like silver,— and have four kinds of 
pie to choose from. And she came from New 
York! That was perhaps the most wonder¬ 
ful part of all. Sue sat down on her window- 
seat, gave a long sigh, and fell into a dream 
of New York. 

They drove curricles there, glittering curri- 


THE NEW-COMER 


19 


cles like those in books. (Sue was very fond 
of books, provided they were “ exciting.”) 

And the houses — well, she knew some¬ 
thing about those, of course; she had heard 
them described; and of course it was stupid 
to have them all alike outside, row upon row 
of brownstone; but, on the other hand, per¬ 
haps it made the mystery of the inside all the 
more amazing. To go in at a plain brown 
door in a plain brown house, and find—find 
— oh! what would not one find ? There 
would be curtains of filmy lace — lace was 
always filmy when it was not rich and creamy; 
well, on the whole, she would have the 
curtains rich and creamy, and keep the filmy 
kind for something else. And the carpets 
were crimson, of course, and so thick your 
feet sank quite out of sight in them. (“ I 
don’t see how you could run,” Sue admitted 
to herself; “ but no matter.”) The walls were 
“hung,” not papered — hung with satin and 
damask, or else with Spanish leather, gilded, 
like those in the Hans Andersen story. Sue 
had begged piteously, when her room was 
done over last year, to have it hung with 


20 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


gilded Spanish leather. She had quoted to 
her mother the song the old hangings sang 
after they had been there for ages and ages : 

“The gilding decays, 

But hog’s leather stays.” 

But it made no difference; the room was 
papered. Sue had chosen the paper, to be 
sure, and it was certainly pretty; but — 
she sighed as she looked around and fancied 
the Spanish leather creaking in the wind; 
then sank into her dream again. 

The rooms, downstairs, at least, were in 
suites, opening out of each other in long vistas 
(“vista” was a lovely word! there were no 
houses in Hilton big enough to have vistas, but 
probably they would have them at the hotel), 
with long French windows opening on to velvet 
lawns— No! Sue shook herself severely. 
That was the other kind of house — the kind 
that was embosomed in trees, in Miss Yonge’s 
stories. Of course they would n’t have 
French windows in New York ; the burglars 
could get in. An adventure with a burglar 
would be terribly exciting, though ! There 


THE NEW-COMER 


21 


might be just one French window. Sue’s 
mind hovered for a moment, tempted to wan¬ 
der into a dream of burglary ; but she rejected 
it, and went on with the house. The furni¬ 
ture would be just perfectly fine — rosewood 
and satinwood, and one room all ebony and 
pale yellow satin. You wore a yellow crape 
dress when you sat there, with — yes; now 
came in the filmy lace, lots and lots of it 
round your snowy neck, that rose out of it 
like a dove,— no, like a swan, or a pillar, or 
something. Then, upstairs — oh ! she had n’t 
got to upstairs yet, but she must just take a 
peep and see the silver bedstead, all hung 
with pale blue velvet. Oh, how lovely ! And 
— why, yes, it might be — in the bed there 
would be a maiden sleeping, more beautiful 
than the day. Her long, fair hair was spread 
out on the pillow (when Sue was grown up 
she was never, never going to braid her hair 
at night; she was always going to spread it 
out), and her nightgown was all lace, every 
bit, and the sheets were fine as a cambric 
handkerchief, and her eyelashes were black, 
and so long that they reached half-way down 


22 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


her nose, like that paper doll Mrs, Hart made. 
Well, and Sue would go up and look at her. 
Oh ! if she herself were only a fairy prince 
in green and gold, or could change into one 
just for a little while ! But, anyhow, she would 
look at the lovely maiden and say: 

“ Love, if thy tresses be so dark,—” 

But these tresses were fair! Well, never 
mind; she could change that: 

“ Love, if thy tresses be so fair, 

How bright those hidden eyes must be ! ” 

That was really almost as good as the real 
way. It would be just lovely to be a poet, 
and say that kind of thing all the time ! Sue 
wondered how one began to be a poet; she 
thought she would try, when she got through 
with this. And then the maiden would wake 
up and say: “Hallo!” and Sue would say: 
“ Hallo ! what’s your name ? ” and she would 
say, soft and low, like the wind of the western 
sea: 

“ Clarice! ” And then they would be friends 
for life, the dearest friends in the world— 


THE NEW-COMER 


2 3 


except Mary, of course. But then, Mary was 
different. She was the dearest girl that ever 
was, but there was nothing romantic about 
her. Clarice ! It was a pity the other name 
was Packard ! It ought to have been Atherton, 
or Beaudesert. Clarice Beaudesert! That was 
splendid. But Mr. Packard did n’t look as 
if he belonged to that kind of people. Well, 
then, when Clarice grew up she would have 
to marry some one called Beaudesert — or 
Clifford. Clarice Clifford was beautiful ! And 
he would be a lord, of course, because there 
was the good Lord Clifford, you know. And 
— and — well, anyhow, Clarice would get 
up, and would thrust her tiny feet into blue 
velvet slippers embroidered with pearls (if 
there had really been fairies, the very first 
thing Sue would have asked for would have 
been small feet, instead of these great things 
half a yard long), and throw round her (they 
always threw things round them in books, in¬ 
stead of putting them on) a — let me see — a 
long robe of pale blue velvet, to match the 
bed, and lined with ermine all through; and 
then she would take Sue round and show her 


24 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


the rest of the house. That would be per¬ 
fectly lovely! And they would tell each other 
the books they liked best; and perhaps Clarice 
would ask her to stay to tea, and then they 
would sit down to a small round ebony table, 
with a snowy cloth,— no ; bare would be finer 
if it was real ebony,— and glittering with crys¬ 
tal and silver (they always do that), and with 
rose-colored candle-shades, and — and — 

Tinkle, tinkle ! went the dinner-bell. “Oh, 
dear!” said Sue. “Just as I was going to 
have such a delightful feast! And it’s mince¬ 
meat day, too. I hate mincemeat day ! ” 

When she was not dreaming, Sue was 
planning how she could make the much-de¬ 
sired acquaintance of the new-comer. Mary 
advised waiting a little, and said her father was 
goingto call on Mr. Packard, and the meeting 
might perhaps come about naturally in that 
way. But this was altogether too prosaic for 
Sue. She must find a way that was not just 
plain being introduced; that was stupid and 
grown-up. She must find a way of her own, 
that should belong entirely to her. 


THE NEW-COMER 


25 


Of course, the best thing, the right and proper 
and story-book thing, would be for Mr. Pack¬ 
ard’s horse to run away when only Clarice was 
in the carriage. Then Sue could fling herself 
in the path of the infuriated animal, and check 
him in mid-career by the power of her eye — 
no; it was lions you did that to. But, any¬ 
how, she could catch him by the bridle, and 
hang on, and stop him that way. It did n’t 
sound so well, but it was more likely. Or if 
Clarice should fall into the river, Sue could 
plunge in and rescue her, swimming with one 
hand and upholding the fainting form of the 
lovely maiden with the other, till, half-uncon¬ 
scious herself, the youthful heroine reached 
the bank, and placed her lovely — no; said 
that before ! —her beauteous burden in the 
arms of her distracted parent. Oh, dear, how 
exciting that would be ! But nobody ever did 
fall into the river in Hilton, and the horses 
never ran away, so it was not to be ex¬ 
pected. But there must be some way; there 
should be! 

So it came to pass that on the Sunday after 
the Packards’ arrival, Miss Clarice Packard, 


26 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


rustling into her fathers pew in all the con¬ 
scious glory of a flowered organdie muslin 
and the biggest hat in town, found in the cor¬ 
ner of the pew something that made her open 
her pale blue eyes wider than usual. It was 
a large heart of red sugar, tied round with a 
true-lover’s knot of white satin ribbon. Look¬ 
ing round, she became aware of a pair of eyes 
fixed eagerly on her, the brightest eyes she 
had ever seen. They belonged to a little girl 
— well, not so very little, either ; rather a tall 
girl, on the whole, but evidently very young — 
sitting across the aisle. This girl was ridicu¬ 
lously dressed, Miss Packard thought, with no 
style at all about her; and yet, somehow — 
well, she was pretty, certainly. It seemed to 
be one of the best pews in the church. Her 
mother— that must be her mother — was ‘ ‘ real 
stylish/’ certainly, though her gown was too 
plain; and, after all, the girl had style, too, in 
her way. It would be nice to have some one 
to speak to in this dreadful, poky little place 
that “ Puppa” would insist on bringing her to. 
The idea of his not trusting her to stay alone 
at the boarding-house! Clarice had wept 




























THE NEW-COMER 


29 


tears of vexation at being “cruelly forced,” 
as she said, to come with her father to Hil¬ 
ton. She had called it a hole, and a desert, 
and everything else that her rather scanty 
vocabulary could afford. But now, here was 
a pretty little girl, who looked as if she were 
somebody, evidently courting her acquain¬ 
tance. There was no mistaking the eager, 
imploring gaze of the clear hazel eyes. Cla¬ 
rice nodded slightly, and smiled. The younger 
girl flushed all over, and her face seemed to 
quiver with light in a way different from any¬ 
thing Clarice had ever seen. There might 
be some fun here, after all, if she had a nice 
little friend who would adore her, and listen 
to all her stories, which the other girls were 
sometimes disagreeable about. 

Two people in church, that Sunday, heard 
little of the excellent sermon. Sue could 
not even take her usual interest in the great 
east window, which was generally her main¬ 
stay through the parts of the sermon she 
could not follow. To begin with, there were 
the figures that made the story; but these 
were so clear and simple that they really said 


30 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


less, when once one knew the story by heart, 
than some other features. There were the 
eight blue scrolls that looked almost exactly 
like knights’ helmets ; and when you looked 
at them the right way, the round blue dots 
underneath made the knights’ eyes ; and there 
you had them, all ready for tournaments or 
anything. Scruples of conscience obliged Sue 
to have them always Templars or Knights of 
Malta, and they only fought against infidels. 
One of the knights had lost an eye; and the 
number of ways and places in which he had 
lost it was amazing: Saladin had run a lance 
into it at Acre; he had been tilting, just for 
fun, with Tancred, and Tancred hit him by 
mistake and put his eye out; and so on and 
so on. Then, there were the jewels, high up 
in the window; the small, splendid spots of 
ruby and violet and gold, which Sue was in 
the habit of taking out and making into jew¬ 
els for her own adornment. The tiara of 
rubies, the long, dangling ear-rings of crystal 
set in gold, the necklace of sapphires — how 
often had she worn them to heart’s content! 
And to-day she did, indeed, make use of them, 


THE NEW-COMER 


3 


but it was to adorn her new beauty, her new 
friend. She would bring them all to Clarice ! 
She would put the tiara on her head, and 
clasp the necklace round her slender neck, 
and say, “ All is yours ! ” And then she, Sue, 
would go by dale and would go by down 
with a single rose in her hair, just like Lady 
Clare ; but Clarice would call her back and 
say : “ Beloved, let us share our jewels and our 
joys! ” 

Oh! Sue quivered at the thought, and 
looked so brightly and earnestly at the minis¬ 
ter that the good old man was surprised and 
pleased, and said to himself that he should 
hardly have supposed his comments on Ezra 
would so impress even the young and, com¬ 
paratively speaking, thoughtless ! 

When Clarice Packard came out of church, 
she found her would-be acquaintance dim¬ 
pling and quivering on the door-step. 

“ Hallo ! ” said Clarice, with kind conde¬ 
scension, just exactly as she had done when 
Sue waked her up, in the dream ! 

“ Hallo! ” whispered Sue, in a rapturous 
whisper. This, she told herself, was the 


32 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


great moment of her life. Till now she had 
been a child; now she was—she did not 
stop to explain what, and it might have been 
difficult. 

“ Did you put this in my pew? ” the new¬ 
comer went on, secretly displaying the sugar 
heart. Sue nodded, but could not trust her¬ 
self to speak. 

“ It was just perfectly sweet of you ! ” said 
Clarice. “ I’m real glad to have somebody 
to speak to ; I was feeling real homesick.” 

Sue was dimly conscious that it was not 
good English to say “ real ” in that way; but 
perhaps people did say it in New York; and 
in any case, she could not stop to think of such 
trifles. She was in a glow of delight; and 
when Clarice asked her to walk down the 
street with her, the cup of happiness seemed 
brimming over. She, Sue Penrose, who had 
never in her life been out of Hilton, except 
now and then to go to Chester, the neighbor¬ 
ing town — she was the one chosen by this 
wonderful stranger, this glittering princess 
from afar, to walk with her. • 

Sue did not see Mary at first. At length 


THE NEW-COMER 


33 


she became aware of her, gazing in wonder, 
and she gave a little quick, rapturous nod. 
There was no time to explain. She could 
only catch Mary’s hand, in passing, and give it 
a squeeze, accompanied by a look of intense, 
dramatic significance. Mary would see, would 
understand. 

Of course Mary would share her treasure, 
her new joy, sooner or later; but just now she 
could not surrender it to any one, not even to 
Mary. As Clarice passed her arm through 
hers, Sue straightened her slight figure, and 
looked as if the world were at her feet. And 
so they passed down the street; and Mary, 
left alone for the first time since she could re¬ 
member, stood in the church porch and looked 
after them. 


CHAPTER III 


MARYS VIEW 



, AMMY, I have seen her!” 

“Well, Mary dear?” 

“Oh, Mammy, it is n’t well! It 
is n’t a bit well; it’s just horrid! I don’t like 
her a bit, and I never shall like her, I know.” 

Mrs. Hart made room beside her on the 
wide sofa in the corner of which she sat knit¬ 
ting. “ Come and tell me, dear! ” she said 
comfortably. “ Let us take the trouble out 
and look at it; it may be smaller than you 
think. Tell Mammy all about it! ” 

Mary drew a long breath, and rubbed her 
head against her mother’s arm. “Oh, Mammy, 
you do smooth me out so! ” she said. “ I 
feel better already; perhaps it is n’t quite so 


34 




MARY’S VIEW 


35 


bad as it seems to me, but I’m afraid it is. 
Well, I told you how they made friends?” 

“Yes; Sue put a red sugar heart in the 
corner of the Packard pew, and she and the 
little girl — she is n't little? well, then, the big 
girl — made eyes at each other all through 
the service, and fell upon each other’s neck 
afterward. My dear, it was n’t the thing to 
do, of course; but Sue meant no harm, and it 
was a truly Susannic proceeding. What came 
next ?” 

“You know I was busy all day Monday, 
helping you with the strawberry-jam. Well, 
they were together all day; and yesterday, 
when I went over to see Sue, she was at the 
hotel with Clarice, and had been invited to 
stay to dinner. I stayed and played with 
Lily, who seemed pretty forlorn; and I kept 
hoping Sue would come back; but she did n’t. 
Mammy! ” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“ I do think Lily has a forlorn time! You 
spoke to me about it once, and I said then I 
did n’t think so. I — I think it was just that 
I did n’t see, then ; now I do ! ” 


36 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Mrs. Hart patted Mary’s arm, but said no¬ 
thing; and the girl went on : 

“Well, then, this morning, about an hour 
ago, Sue came flying over in the wildest ex¬ 
citement. Clarice Packard was there at her 
house, and I must come over that very minute. 
She was the dearest and loveliest creature in 
the world ; and we must love each other, too ; 
and we should be three hearts that beat as 
one; and she never was so happy in her life! 
You must have heard her, Mammy; all this 
was in the front entry, and she was swinging 
on the door all the time she was talking; she 
had n’t time to let go the handle, she said.” 

“Yes, I heard; but I was busy, and did not 
notice much. She seemed to be rather un¬ 
usually ‘ quicksilvery,’ I thought. And did you 
fly over with her ?” 

“Why, no; I was just going to feed the 
dogs,— I promised the boys I would, because 
they wanted to go fishing early,—and I had 
the chickens to see to, and I could n’t go that 
minute. I ought n’t to have gone at all, 
Mammy, for you needed me, though you 
would say you did n’t. Well, Sue went off 


MARY’S ,VIEW 


37 


quite huffy; but when I did go over, she for¬ 
got all about it, and was all beaming and rip¬ 
pling. She is a darling, if she does provoke 
me sometimes! She flew downstairs to meet 
me, and hugged me till I had no breath left, 
and almost dragged me upstairs to her room. 
She was out of breath as well as I, and she 
could only say: ‘Oh, Clarice, this is Mary! 
Mary, this is Clarice Packard, my new friend. 
She does n’t care a bit about being two years 
older than we are ! And now we shall all 
three be friends, like — like the Dauntless 
Three, don’t you know? Oh, is n’t this splen¬ 
did ! Oh, I never was so happy in my life!’ 

“Mammy, Clarice Packard did n’t look as if 
she had ever heard of the Dauntless Three! 
but she smiled a little, thin smile, and opened 
her eyes at me, and said, ‘ So glad! ’ I shook 
hands, of course, and her hand just flopped 
into mine, all limp and froggy. I gave it a 
good squeeze, and she made a face as if I had 
broken her bones.” 

“You have a powerful grip, you know, 
Mary! Everybody is n’t used to wrestling with 
boys; you probably did hurt her.” 


38 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ I know, Mammy; I suppose I did squeeze 
too hard. Well! Sue had been showing her 
everything—all our things, that we play with 
together. She did n’t say much,—well, per¬ 
haps she could not have said very much, for 
Sue was talking all the time, — but I felt — 
Mammy, I felt sure that she did n’t really care 
about any of them. I know she laughed at 
the telephone, because I saw her. 

“ ‘ I have a real telephone in my room at 
home,’ she said, ‘ a long-distance one. My 
dearest friend lives in Brooklyn, and we have 
a line all to ourselves. Puppa is one of the 
directors, you know, and I told him I could n’t 
have other people listening to what Leonie 
and I said to each other, so he gave us a private 
line.’ Mammy, do you believe that ? I don’t! ” 

“ I cannot say, my dear! ” said Mrs. Hart, 
cautiously. “It sounds unlikely, but I cannot 
say it is not true. Go on.” 

“ I think Sue had been showing Clarice her 
dresses before I came, for the closet door was 
open, and her pink gingham was on the bed; 
and presently Clarice said: ‘ Have you any 
jewelry?’ 


MARY’S VIEW 


39 


“Sue ran and brought her box, and took out 
all her pretty little things. You know what 
pretty things Sue has, Mammy! You re¬ 
member the blue mosaic cross her god¬ 
mother sent her from Italy, with the white 
dove on it, and the rainbow-shell necklace, 
and that lovely enameled rose-leaf pin with 
the pearl in the middle ? ” 

“Yes; Sue has some very pretty trinkets, 
simple and tasteful, as a child’s should be. 
Mrs. Penrose has excellent taste in all such 
matters. Sue must have enjoyed showing 
them to a new person.” 

“ Dear Sue! she was so pleased and happy, 
she never noticed; but I could see that that 
girl was just laughing at the things. Of 
course none of them are showy—I should 
hope not! — but you would have thought they 
were nothing but make-believe, the way she 
looked at them. She kept saying, ‘ Oh, very 
pretty! quite sweet!' and then she would 
open her eyes wide and smile; and Sue just 
quivered with delight every time she did it. 
Sue thinks it is perfectly beautiful; she says 
it is Clarice’s soul overflowing at her eyes. / 


40 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


want to shake her every time she does it. 
Well, then she said in a sort of silky voice she 
has—Sue calls it ‘silken/ and I call it ‘silky’; 
and I think, somehow, Mammy, that shows 
partly the way she strikes us both, don’t 
you ? — she said in that soft, silky way, 
‘ Any diamonds, dear ? ’ Of course she knew 
Sue had no diamonds! The idea! I never 
heard anything so ridiculous. And when Sue 
said no, she said: “I wish I had brought my 
chain; I should like to show it to you. Puppa 
thought it hardly safe for me to bring it down 
here into the backwoods, he said. It goes all 
round my neck, you know, and reaches down 
to my belt. It cost a thousand dollars.’ 
Mammy, do you believe that ? ” 

“ I don’t think it at all likely, my dear! I 
am afraid Clarice is given to romancing. But 
of course she may have a good deal of jewelry. 
Some very rich people who have not just our 
ideas about such matters often wear a great 
many jewels— more than we should like to 
wear, even if we had the means. But people 
of good taste would never allow a young girl 
to wear diamonds.” 


MARY’S VIEW 


4i 


“I should think not, Mammy! Clarice 
Packard had no diamonds on, but her hands 
were just covered with rings — rather cheap, 
showy rings, too. There was one pretty one, 
though, that took Sue’s fancy greatly, and 
mine too, for that matter. It was a ring of 
gold wire, with a tiny gold mouse running 
loose round it—just loose, Mammy, holding 
on by its four little feet. Oh, such a pretty 
thing! Sue was perfectly enchanted with it, 
and could not give over admiring it; and at 
last Clarice took it off, and put it on Sues 
finger, and said she must wear it a little while 
for her sake. I wish, somehow, Sue had said 
no ; but she was so happy, and ‘ quicksilvered ’ 
all over so, it was pretty to see her. She 
threw her arms round Clarice’s neck, and told 
her she was a dear, beautiful, royal darling. 
Then Clarice whispered something in Sue’s 
ear, and looked at me out of the corner of her 
eye, and Sue colored and looked distressed; 
and — and so I came away, Mammy dear, and 
here I am ! ” 

“ Rather hot, and a little cross?” said Mrs. 
Hart. 


42 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Yes, Mammy.” 

“ And with a sore spot in your heart? ” 

“Yes, Mammy.” 

Mrs. Hart put down her knitting and held 
out her arms, and Mary curled up in her lap, 
and tried to shorten her long legs and make 
herself as small as might be. 

“You know what I am afraid of, Mammy!” 
she said. 

Her mother nodded, and pressed the com¬ 
forting arms closer round her little girl, but 
said nothing. 

“ I am afraid I am going to lose my Sue, 
my own Sue, who has always belonged to 
me. It does n’t seem as if I could bear it, 
Mammy. It has come — so—don’t you know ? 
— so all of a sudden! We never thought 
anything could possibly come between us. I 
never should think of wanting any one but 
Sue, and I thought — it was the same — with 
her. And—and now—she does not see her¬ 
self how it is, not a bit; she is just as sweet 
and loving as ever, and she thinks that I can 
start right in as she has done, and love this 
girl, and that there will be three of us instead 


MARY’S VIEW 


43 


of two. Mammy, it cannot be. You see that, 
I ’m sure ; of course you do ! And — and I 
am very sad, Mammy.” 

Mrs. Hart stroked the brown head in si¬ 
lence for a few minutes ; then she said: 

“ Dear child, I don’t really think we need 
be afraid of that — of your losing Sue perma¬ 
nently. You are likely to have an uncomfor¬ 
table summer; that, I fear, we must expect. 
But Sue is too good and loving at bottom to 
be seriously moved by this new-comer; and a 
tie like that between you and her, Mary, is 
too strong to be easily loosed. Sue is dazzled 
by the glitter and the novelty, and all the 
quicksilver part of her is alive and excited. 
It is like some of your stories coming true, 
or it seems so to her, I have no doubt. Re¬ 
member that you are very different, you two, 
and that while you are steady-going and con¬ 
tent with every-day life, she is always dream¬ 
ing, and longing for something new and 
wonderful. She would not be so dear to you 
if you were more alike, nor you to her. But 
by and by the other part of her, the sensible 
part, will wake up again, and she will see 


44 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


what is foolish in this new friendship, and 
what is real and abiding in the old. Then, 
too, Mary, you must remember that you are 
excited as well as Sue, and perhaps not quite 
just. You have only seen this girl once—” 

“It would be just the same, Mammy, if I had 
seen her a hundred times; I know it would ! ” 

“No, love; you cannot know that Some 
people show their worst side on first acquain¬ 
tance, and improve as we know them better. 
You certainly must show some attention to 
Clarice Packard. Your father has met Mr. 
Packard, and says he seems a sensible man, 
though not a person of much education. 
Suppose you invite the girl here and let me 
see her? We might ask her to tea some 
evening this week.” 

“No, Mammy; Papa would not endure it; 
I know he would not. There! look, Mammy! 
There they go, she and Sue. Look and see 
for yourself! ” 

Mrs. Hart looked, and saw the two girls 
pacing along the opposite sidewalk, arm in 
arm. Clarice was bending over Sue with 
an exaggerated air of confidence; her eyes 


MARY’S VIEW 


45 


languished, and she shook her head and 
shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable 
consequence. 

“You are right, dear,” said Mrs. Hart; 
“ not to tea, certainly. What shall we do, 
then? Let me see! You might have a picnic, 
you three girls; that is an excellent way of 
improving acquaintance. You may find it 
quite a different thing, meeting in an informal 
way. The first interview would, of course, be 
the trying one.” 

Mary brightened. “That would be just the 
thing ! ” she said. “ And I will try, Mammy, 
I surely will try to like Clarice, if I possibly 
can; and of course I can be nice to her, any¬ 
how, and I will. Oh, here comes Sue back 
again, and I ’ll ask her! ” 

Sue came flying back along the street at a 
very different pace from the mincing steps to 
which she had been trying to suit her own. 
Mary rapped on the window. Sue flashed an 
answering smile, whirled across the street and 
in at the door, hugged Mary, kissed Mrs. 
Hart, and dropped on a hassock, all in one 
unbroken movement. 


46 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Oh, Mrs. Hart,” she cried, “did you see 
her ? Did you see Clarice ? Is n’t she too 
perfectly lovely ? Did you ever see such 
hair and eyes ? Did you ever see any one 
walk so ? ” 

“ No, dear; I don’t know that I ever did ! ” 
said Mrs. Hart. “ But I could hardly see 
your friend’s face, you know. You are very 
much pleased with her, are you, Sue dear?” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Sue, throwing her head back 
with a favorite ecstatic movement of hers. 
“ Mrs. Hart, she is simply the most lovely 
creature I ever saw in my life. Her ways — 
why, you never imagined anything so — so 
gracious, and—and queenly, and—and—oh, 
I don’t know what to call it. And she is going 
to stay all summer; and we are to be three 
together, she and Mary and I. You dear!” 
She stopped to hug Mary and take breath. 
“You dear old Sobriety, you have n’t got a 
bit used to Clarice yet; I’m only just begin¬ 
ning to get used to her myself, she’s so dif¬ 
ferent from us. She comes from New York, 
Mrs. Hart; just think of that! She walks 
down Broadway every day when she is at 
home. And she has told me all about the 


MARY’S VIEW 


47 


elevated railroad; she is n’t a bit afraid to go 
on it, and I don’t believe I should be. And— 
and—oh, Mrs. Hart, is n’t it wonderful?” 

Mrs. Hart smiled down into the beaming 
face ; it was impossible not to respond to such 
heartfelt joy. 

“ Dear Sue! ” she said affectionately. 
“ You must bring your new friend to see 
me soon.” 

“ Oh, of course I shall! ” cried Sue. 

“And Mary and I were just wondering 
whether it would be pleasant for you three 
to have a picnic some day soon.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Hart, how perfectly delightful! 
When can we go? To-day? 1 ’ll run after 
Clarice and tell her.” 

“No, no, Quicksilver!” said Mary, catch¬ 
ing Sue’s skirt as she sprang up, and pulling 
her down to her seat again. “ We can’t go to¬ 
day, possibly. Perhaps to-morrow—what do 
you say, Mammy ? or would Friday be better ? ” 

Sue’s face fell. “Friday!” she said. “Why, 
Mary, Friday is ever and ever so far off! I 
don’t see how we can wait till Friday ! ” 

“ To-morrow will do very well,” said Mrs. 
Hart. “ I have a small chicken-pie that will 


48 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


be the very thing; and there are doughnuts 
and cookies. How is your mother feeling, 
Sue? Will she or Katy be able to get up 
something for you, do you think ? ” 

“Oh, yes, indeed, Mrs. Hart! I ’ll make 
an angel-cake; and there is jam, and — well, 
Katy was going to show me how to make 
croquettes some time, and perhaps I ’ll learn 
how to-morrow, and then they will be all 
ready, you see; and oh, we ’ll have alk 
kinds of things. Let ’s go and see about 
them now, Mary! Oh, and we ’ll ask the 
boys. Don’t you think they will come, 
Mary ? Clarice wants to know them. Is n’t 
that sweet of her ? ” 

“ Indeed! ” said Mrs. Hart and Mary, in 
one breath. “ Has she seen them? ” 

“ No ; but she asked if there were any nice 
boys here, and of course I said yes, the nicest 
boys in the world—Tom and Teddy; and she 
asked me to introduce them to her; and — 
and so, you see ! ” 

“I see!” said Mrs. Hart, with a quiet 
smile. “ There are the boys now, back from 
fishing. Why don’t you all go and have a 
good game of ‘I spy ’ in the orchard ? ” 


MARY’S VIEW 


49 


“ Oh, good ! ” cried both girls. 

They ran to the door just in time to meet 
two jolly, freckled boys who came rolling in, 
both talking at once. Sue stumbled and fell 
over one of them, knocking his cap off, and 
his basket out of his hand. 

“Now, then, Quicksilver,” said Tom, “where 
are you a-coming to ? Thermometer smashed, 
and mercury running all over the lot, eh ? ” 
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Tom — I do in¬ 
deed ! But I saved you the trouble of taking 
off your hat, anyhow. Come along and play 
‘ I spy ’ in the orchard.” 

“Hurrah!” cried the boys. “Where ’s 
Mammy ? Oh, Mammy, pickereels ! five fine 
fat festive pickereels! Fried for supper, please, 
Mammy ! Coming, Quicksilver ! All right, 
Ballast! ” (Ballast was Mary’s nickname, as the 
opposite of Quicksilver.) “Who ’ll count out ? ” 
“I!” “Me!” “You!” 

They tumbled out of the back door together, 
and the last sound Mrs. Hart heard was: 

“ Wonozol, zoo-ozol, zigozol, zan, 

Bobtail, vinegar, tittle-tol, tan; 
Harum-scarum, virgin marum, 

Hy, zon, tus!” 


CHAPTER IV 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 



»T six o’clock on Thursday morning 
Sue was up and scanning the clouds. 
There were not many clouds to scan; 
the sun was rising bright and glorious in a 
wonderful blue sky. 

“ It ’s going to be a perfectly splendid 
day!” said Sue. “I must call Mary. I don’t 
believe she is awake. Oh, I ’ll send a 
pigeon; that’s just what I ’ll do. It will be 
lovely to be waked up by a pigeon this glori¬ 
ous morning; and I have to feed them, any¬ 
how, because I said I would. I am never 
going to forget the pigeons again — never! 
The next time I do, I shall go without food 
for two days, and see how / like it.” 


So 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 51 

Sue dashed into her dress, buttoned it half¬ 
way up, and rushed headlong down the stairs 
and through the kitchen. Katy, the maid of 
all work, was crossing the floor with a brim¬ 
ming pan of milk. Crash ! Sue ran directly 
into her. The pan fell with a mighty splash; 
the milk flew over both Katy and Sue, wet¬ 
ting them from head to feet. 

“ Indade, then, Miss Sue, ’t is too bad of 
yez entirely ! ” cried Katy. “ And laughin’, 
too, after sp’ilin’ me gown and desthroyin’ me 
clane flure, let alone all the milk in the house 
gone.” 

“ Oh, but, Katy, if you knew how funny 
you look, with the white milk all over your 
red face ! I can’t help laughing; I truly can’t. 
And my dress is spoiled too, you see, so it’s 
all right. I can’t stop now; I ’m in the most 
terrible hurry ! ” 

She flew on, but popped her head back 
through the door to say: 

“ But I am sorry, Katy ; I truly am ! And 
if you ’ll just leave the milk there, I ’ll pick it 
up—I mean wipe it up—just as soon as I 
get back from the picnic.” 


52 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Her smile was so irresistible that Katy’s 
angry face softened in spite of herself. 

“ Sure it ’s merely a child she is,” the good 
woman said. “Miss Lily ’s twice the sinse 
of her, but yet ’t is her takes the heart of 
one! ” 

She brought the mop and wiped up the milk, 
then went soberly to change her dress, won¬ 
dering how the mistress would make her 
breakfast without the milk-toast which was 
usually all she could fancy in the morning. 

Sue had already forgotten the milk. She 
ran on across the yard, where the dew lay 
thick and bright, to a small building that 
stood under a spreading apple-tree. It had 
been a shed once, and its general effect was 
still, Sue admitted, “a little sheddy”; but the 
door was very fine, being painted a light pea- 
green, the panels picked out with scarlet, and 
having a really splendid door-plate of bright 
tin, with “ S. PENROSE” in black letters. 
Some white pigeons sat on the roof sunning 
themselves, and they fluttered down about the 
girl’s head as she tried the door. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Sue. “ How stupid of 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 


53 


me to lock the door last night! I might have 
known I should forget the key this morning. 
Never mind; I can get in at the window.” 

She could, and did; but, catching her dress 
on a nail, tore a long, jagged rent in the skirt. 

“Dear me!” said Sue, again. “And I 
don’t believe there is another clean one, since 
I spilt the ink last night. Never mind ! ” 

Sue ran up the narrow stairs, and, crossing 
a landing, entered a tiny room, papered with 
gay posters. There was plenty of room for 
the little table and two chairs, and if a third 
person should come in she could sit on the 
table. A narrow shelf ran all round the 
room. This was the Museum, and held speci¬ 
mens of every bird’s nest in the neighboring 
country (all old nests; if Sue had caught 
any one robbing a nest, or stealing a new 
one, it would have gone hard with that per¬ 
son), and shells and fossils from the clay bank 
near the river. The boys played “ Prehis¬ 
toric Man” there a good deal, and sometimes 
they let Sue and Mary join them, which 
was great glory. Then there was smoked 
glass for eclipses (Sue smoked them after 


54 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


the last eclipse, a year ago, so as to be ready 
for the next one; but the next one was only 
the moon, which was tiresome, because you 
did n’t need smoked glass), and a dried rattle¬ 
snake, and a portrait of Raphael framed in 
lobster-claws. Sue did not look at these 
treasures now, because she knew they were 
all there; but if any “ picknickle or buck- 
nickle” had been missing, she would have 
known it in an instant. Flinging herself into 
a chair, she hunted for a piece of paper ; found 
one, but rejected it in favor of a smooth, thin 
sheet of birch bark, on which she wrote as 
follows: 

“ Dearest Juliet: It is the east, and thou art the sun, 
and it’s time to get up. I pray thee, wake, sweet maid ! 
This white bird, less snowy than thy neck, bears thee my 
morning greeting. Do hurry up and dress! Is n’t this 
day perfectly fine ? Sha’n’t we have a glorious picnic ? 
What are you going to wear? My cake is just lovely! 
I burned the first one, so this is n’t angel, it’s buttercup, 
because I had to take the yolks. Star of my night, send 
back a message by the bird of love to thy adored 

“ Romeo.” 

Hastily folding the note into a rather tipsy 
cocked hat, Sue opened a little door upon a 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 55 

ladder-like staircase, and called : “ Coo! coo ! 
coo! ” 

Down fluttered the pigeons, a dozen or 
more, and taking one in her hands, she fas¬ 
tened a note to a bit of ribbon that hung round 
its neck. 

“There!” she said. “Oh, you dear dar¬ 
lings ! I must give you your corn before I 
do another thing.” 

The corn was in a little covered bin on the 
landing at the head of the stairs. This land¬ 
ing was called the anteroom, and was fully 
as large as a small table-cloth. Sue scattered 
the corn with a free hand, and the pigeons 
cooed, and scrambled for it as only pigeons 
can. She kept one good handful to feed the 
messenger bird, and several others perched 
on her shoulders and thrust their soft heads 
into her hand. 

“Dear things!” said Sue, again. “Zu- 
leika, do you love me? Do you, Leila and 
Hassan? Oh, I wonder if I look like Lili, 
in the Goethe book! If I were only tall, 
and had a big white hat and a long white 
gown with ruffles, I think perhaps—” 


56 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


She stopped short, for a voice was calling 
from below : “ Sue, Sue, where are you ? ” 

Sue’s face, which had been as bright as 
Lili’s own, fell. 

“ Oh, Mary Hart! ” she cried. “ How 
could you ? ” 

“How could I what?” and Mary’s rosy 
face looked up from the foot of the stair¬ 
case. 

“Why, I supposed you were still sound 
asleep, and I was just going to send a pigeon 
over. See ! The note is all fastened on ; and 
it ’s a Romeo note, too; and now you have 
spoiled it all! ” 

“ Not a bit! ” said Mary, cheerfully. “ I ’ll 
run right back, Sue. I am only walking in 
my sleep. Look ! see me walk ! ” 

She stretched her arms out stiffly, and 
stalked away, holding her head high and 
staring straight in front of her. Sue observed 
her critically. 

“You ’re doing it more like Lady Macbeth 
than Juliet!” she called after her. “But still 
it ’s fine, Mary, only you ought to glare 
harder, I think. Mind you stay asleep till 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 


57 


the pigeon comes. It s Abou Hassan the 
wag” (the pigeons were named out of the 
“Arabian Nights”), “so you might give him 
a piece of apple, if you like, Juliet.” 

“ No apples in Verona at this season! ” 
said Juliet, in a sleep-walking voice (which is 
a loud, sepulchral monotone, calculated to 
freeze the blood of the listener). “ I don’t 
suppose hard-boiled egg would hurt him ! ” 
Then she snored gently, and disappeared 
round the corner. 

“ That was clever of Mary,” said Sue. “ I 
wish I walked in my sleep really and truly, 
like that funny book Mr. Hart has about 
Sylvester Sound. It would be splendid to 
be able to walk over the housetops and never 
fall, and never know anything about it till you 
woke up and found yourself somewhere else. 
And then, in that opera Mamma told me about, 
she walked right out of the window, and all 
kinds of things happened. It must be dread¬ 
fully exciting. But if I did walk in my sleep, 
I would always go to bed with my best dress 
on, only I ’d have my feet bare and my hair 
down. Dear me! There ’s that gray cat, 


58 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


and I know she is after my pigeons! Just 
wait a minute, you cat! ” 

Sue dismissed the pigeons gently, and they 
fluttered obediently up to their cote, while 
she ran downstairs. Sure enough, a wicked¬ 
looking gray cat was crouching on a branch 
of the apple-tree, watching with hungry eyes 
the few birds that had remained on the roof. 
The cat did not see Sue, or, at all events, took 
no notice of her. Sue slipped round to the 
farther side of the tree and began to climb 
up silently. It was an easy tree to climb, and 
she knew every knob and knot that was com¬ 
fortable for the foot to rest on. Soon she 
was on a level with the roof of the pigeon- 
house, and, peeping round the bole, saw the 
lithe gray body flattened along the bough, and 
the graceful, wicked-looking tail curling and vi¬ 
brating to and fro. The pretty, stupid pigeons 
cooed and preened their feathers, all uncon¬ 
scious of the danger; another minute, and the 
fatal spring would come. Sue saw the cat 
draw back a little and stiffen herself. She 
sprang forward with a shout, caught the 
branch, missed it — and next moment Sue and 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 


59 


cat were rolling on the ground together in a 
confused heap. Poor pussy (who could not 
understand why she might not have pigeons 
raw, when other people had them potted) 
fled, yowling with terror, and never stopped 
till she was under the kitchen stove, safe from 
bright-eyed, shouting avalanches. Sue picked 
herself up more slowly, and rubbed her head 
and felt for broken bones. 

“ I wont have broken anything,” she said, 
“ and spoil the picnic. Ow ! that hurts ; but 
I can wiggle it all right. I ’ll put some 
witch-hazel on it. My head seems to be 
a little queer!” Indeed, a large lump was 
already “ swellin’ wisibly ” on her forehead. 
“Never mind!” said Sue. “I ’ll put arnica 
on that, and vinegar and brown paper and 
things; perhaps it ’ll be all right by breakfast¬ 
time; and anyhow, I drove off the cat! ” And 
she shook herself, and went cheerfully into 
the house. 

Punctually at nine o’clock the three girls 
met on the door-step of the Penrose house, 
each carrying her basket. They were a 
curious contrast as they stood side by side. 


6o 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Clarice Packard was gaily dressed in a gown 
of figured challis, trimmed with rows on rows 
of ribbon, and a profusion of yellow lace. 
Her vast hat was tilted on one side, and her 
light hair was tormented into little flat curls 
that looked as if they were pinned on, though 
this was not the case. She had on a brooch, 
a gold chain, a locket, seven charms, five 
“ stick-pins,” four hat-pins, three bracelets, 
and eight rings; and, as Mary said to herself, 
she was “a sight to behold.” If Clarice, on 
the other hand, had been asked to describe 
Mary, she would probably have called her a 
red-faced dowdy. As a rule, people did not 
think Mary Hart pretty; but every one said, 
“ What a nice-looking girl! ” And, indeed, 
Mary was as pleasant to look at as clear red 
and white — and freckles ! — could make her, 
with the addition of a very sweet smile, and 
a pair of clear, honest, sensible blue eyes. 
Her brown holland frock was made in one 
piece, like a child’s pinafore, and, worn with a 
belt of russet leather, made a costume of such 
perfect comfort that she and Sue had vowed 
to keep to it till they were sixteen, if their 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 


61 


mothers would let them. Sue was not in 
brown holland to-day, because she had torn 
her last clean pinafore dress, as we have seen; 
but the blue gingham sailor-suit did well 
enough, and the blouse was very convenient 
to put apples in, or anything else from a tame 
squirrel to a bird’s nest. Just now it held a 
cocoanut and some bananas that would not 
go into the basket, and that gave the light, fly¬ 
away figure a singular look indeed. 

But Sue’s bright face was clouded just 
now. She stood irresolute, swinging her 
basket, and looking from one to the other 
of her companions. 

“ Mother says we must take Lily! ” she 
announced in a discontented tone. “ I don’t 
see how we can be bothered with having her. 
She ’ll want to know everything we are talking 
about, and we sha’n’t have half so much fun.” 

Clarice looked sympathetic. “ Children 
are such a nuisance ! ” she said, and shrugged 
her shoulders. “ Seems to me they ought to 
know when they are not wanted.” 

“ Nonsense, Sue ! ” said Mary, ignoring the 
last speech. “Of course we will take Lily; 


62 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


she ’ll be no trouble at all, and she will help a 
good deal with the wreaths and baskets. I ’ll 
see to her,” she added, a little pang of bitter¬ 
ness mingling with one of self-reproach. She 
had not always wanted to take Lily when she 
and Sue were together. They always had so 
much to say to each other that was extremely 
important, and that no one else could possibly 
understand, that a third in the party, and that 
third a child of nine, seemed sadly in the way. 
Now, however, all was changed. Somehow, 
it was herself who was the third. Perhaps 
Lily’s presence would be a relief to-day. 

Presently the little girl came running out, 
all beaming with delight at being allowed to 
go on the big girls’ picnic. 

“ Mother has given me a whole bottle of 
raspberry shrub ! ” she announced joyfully. 

“ Hurrah ! ” cried Sue, her face brightening 
again. “ We can have toasts, and that will 
be splendid. Now let’s start, girls ! Come, 
Clarice. Let me carry your basket; it’s heavy, 
and I can carry two just as well as one.” 

“ Start! ” echoed Clarice. “ We are not 
going to walk, are we ? ” 



ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC 












EARLY IN THE MORNING 


65 


“ Why, yes,” said Sue, looking a little 
blank. “Don’t you — are n’t you fond of 
walking, Clarice? We always walk, Mary 
and I.” 

“ Oh, certainly; I adore walking. Only, if I 
had known, Puppa would have sent the team 
for us. Is it far ? ” And Clarice glanced down 
at her shoes, with their paper soles and high 
heels. 

“ No,” said Sue, cheerily. “ Only a little 
bit of a way, not more than a mile. Oh, Cla¬ 
rice, what a lovely brooch that is ! Won’t you 
tell me about it as we go along ? I am sure 
there is a story about it; there’s something 
so exciting about all your things. Do tell 
me.” 

Clarice simpered and cast down her eyes, 
then cast a significant glance at the others. 
She took Sue’s arm, and they walked on to¬ 
gether, one listening eagerly, the other evi¬ 
dently pouring out some romantic story. 
Mary took Lily’s hand in hers. 

“Come, Lily,” she said; “we will go to¬ 
gether, and I ’ll tell you a story as we go. 
What one would you like ? ‘ Goosey, Gobble, 


66 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


and Ganderee ’ ? Very well! ” But to herself 
Mary was saying: “I don’t believe that girl 
ever walked a mile in her life. We shall 
have to carry her before we get to the 
Glen! ” 


CHAPTER V 

THE PICNIC 

LARICE PACKARD was indeed 
in rather a sad plight before they 
reached the Glen. Part of the 
road was sandy, and her high heels sank into 
the sand and made it hard walking for her, 
while her companions, in their broad-soled 
“sneakers,” trod lightly and sturdily. Then, 
too, she had from time to time a stitch in her 
side, which forced her to sit down and rest for 
some minutes. Mary, looking at her tiny, 
wasp-like waist, thought it was no wonder. 
“ Her belt is too tight,” she whispered to Sue. 
“ Of course she can’t walk. Tell her to let it 
out two or three holes, and she will be all 
right.” 



67 


68 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ Oh, hush, Mary,” whispered Sue. “ It 
is n’t that at all; it’s only that she is so deli¬ 
cate. I ought never to have brought her all 
this way. She has been telling me about the 
fainting-fits she has sometimes. Oh, what 
should we do if she had one now ! ” 

“ Pour some water over her,” said down¬ 
right Mary. “ But don’t worry, Sue; we are 
nearly there, and it really cannot hurt her to 
walk one short mile, you know.” 

“ Do you think not, Mary ? But I am 
afraid you don’t understand her. You see, 
she is so delicate, and you are as strong as a 
cart-horse. Clarice said so. And I suppose I 
am pretty strong, too.” 

“I ’m much obliged to her,” said Mary. 
“ Come, Sue, let’s push along; she will be all 
right when we once get there and she has 
rested a little.” 

The Glen was indeed a pleasant place. A 
clear stream ran along between high, rocky 
banks, with a green space on one side, partly 
shaded by two or three broad oak-trees. 
Under one of these trees was a bank of moss, 
as soft and green as if it had been piled by 


THE PICNIC 


69 


the fairies for their queen. Indeed, this was 
one of Sue’s and Mary’s theories, the other 
being that this special oak was none other 
than Robin Hood’s own greenwood tree, 
transplanted by magic from the depths of 
Sherwood Forest. The former theory ap¬ 
pealed more to Sue now, as she led the weary 
Clarice to the bank, and made her sit down 
in the most comfortable place. 

“There, dear,” she cried; “is n’t this 
lovely ? You shall rest here, Clarice, and we 
will play fairies, and you shall be Titania. 
You don’t mind, do you, Mary, if Clarice is 
Titania this time ? She is so slender, you 
see, and light; and besides, she is too tired to 
be anything else.” 

Mary nodded, with a smile; she could not 
trust herself to speak. She had been Titania 
ever since they first read “ Lamb’s Tales ”; but 
it was no matter, and she had promised her 
mother to do her very best to bring Clarice 
out, and learn the better side of her. 

“ Is n’t it lovely, Clarice?” she asked, re¬ 
peating Sue’s question as she took her place 
on the mossy bank. 


70 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Alegant! ” was the languid reply; “per¬ 
fectly alegant. Is n’t it damp, though ? 
Does n’t it come off green on your clothes ? ” 

Mary reassured her on this point. She ex¬ 
amined her challis anxiously, and sank back 
again, apparently relieved. She looked round 
her. Sue and Lily had vanished for the mo¬ 
ment. The trees met over their heads. There 
was no sound save the tinkling of the brook 
and the faint rustle of the leaves overhead. 

“ It’s real lonesome, is n’t it ? ” said Clarice. 

“ Yes,” said Mary ; “that’s part of the beauty 
of it. There is never any one here, and we 
can do just as we like, with no fear of any one 
coming. I think in the woods it’s pleasant 
to be alone, don’t you ? ” 

“ Alegant! ” said Clarice ; “ perfectly ale¬ 
gant! Are there any more people coming, 
did you say ? ” 

“ Only my brothers; they are coming 
later.” 

“ Clarice brightened, and sat up, arranging 
her trinkets. “Are they in college?” she 
asked, with more interest than she had shown 
in anything that day. 


THE PICNIC 


7 1 


“Oh, no!” said Mary, laughing. “They 
are—” 

But at this moment Sue came running up 
with an armful of ferns and oak-leaves, Lily 
following with another load. “ I had to go 
a long way before I found any that were 
low enough to reach! ” cried Sue, panting 
after her run. “ I must n’t shin to-day, ’cause 
these are new stockings, and last time I tore 
them all to pieces.” 

“ Tore these all to pieces ? ” asked Mary, 
laughing. 

“ Be still, Mary; I won’t be quirked at. 
Now let ’s all make garlands. No, not you, 
Clarice; you must just rest. Do you feel 
better? Do you think you ’ll be all right in 
a little while? Now you shall be Titania and 
give us orders and things; and then, when we 
have finished the wreaths, we ’ll sing you to 
sleep. I am Oberon, you know, generally; 
but I ’ll be one of the common fairies now ; 
and Lily — yes, Lily, you can be Puck. Now, 
can you say some of it, Clarice ? ” 

“ Some of what ? ” asked Clarice, with an 
uncomprehending look. 


72 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Why, ‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream.’ We 
always play that here, except when we play 
Robin Hood. Perhaps you would rather play 
Robin, Clarice; perhaps you don’t care for 
‘ Midsummer-Night’s Dream.’ Oh, I hope you 
do, though. We are so fond of it, Mary and I! ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said Cla¬ 
rice, rather peevishly. “Oh, Shakspere’s play ? 
I never read it. I did n’t take literature at 
school. Puppa thought I was too delicate to 
study much.” 

Sue looked blank for a moment. Not to 
know “ Midsummer-Night’s Dream”—that 
did seem very strange ! 

But Clarice opened her eyes at her and 
smiled and sighed. “ My eyes have never 
been strong! ” she murmured plaintively. 

Sue’s arms were round her in an instant. 
“ You poor darling ! ” she cried. “ Is n’t that 
hard, Mary? is n’t it cruel ? To think of not 
having strong eyes! Clarice, I will come and 
read to you every day ; I should just love to 
do it. We ’ll begin to-morrow morning. Oh, 
how splendid that will be ! What shall we 
read first? You have read ‘Westward Ho! ’ 


THE PICNIC 


73 


of course, and all Mrs. Ewing, and ‘ Prince 
Prigio,’ and ‘ The Gentle Heritage,’ and the 
Alices, and all the Waverleys?” 

No ; Clarice had read none of these. She 
had read “ Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an 
Hour,” she said, last; and she had just begun 
“ My Petite Pet” before she came here. It 
was perfectly sweet, and so was another by 
the same author, only she could n’t remember 
the name. 

“Are n’t we going to play something?” 
asked Lily, plaintively. Lily could never un¬ 
derstand why big girls spent so much good 
time in talking. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” cried Sue. “We must play, 
to get up an appetite for dinner; I ’ve got 
one already, but I ’ll get another. What 
would you like to play, Clarice ? ” 

“ I don’t care,” said Clarice. “ Anything 
you like.” 

“ Oh, but do care, please! ” cried Sue, im¬ 
ploringly ; “ because this is your picnic, really. 
We got it up for you ; and we want you to 
have everything just as you like it; don’t 
we, Mary ? ” 


74 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Mary assented civilly, and pressed Clarice 
to choose a game. 

“ Oh, but I really don’t care in the least! ” 
said Clarice. “ I don’t know much about 
games ; my set of girls don’t play them ; but 
I ’ll play anything you like, dear! ” She 
opened her eyes and smiled again, and again 
Sue embraced her ardently. 

“You dear, sweet, unselfish thing!” she 
cried. “ I think you are an angel; is n’t she, 
Mary? Perhaps we need n’t play anything, 
after all. What would you like to do, Clarice ? ” 

But Clarice would not hear of this — would 
not choose anything, but would graciously 
play any game they decided on. A game of 
“ Plunder ” was started, but somehow it did 
not go well. Plunder is a lively game, and 
must be played with ardor. After two or 
three runs, Clarice put her hand to her side 
and gasped for breath. 

“ Only a stitch ! ” she murmured ; and she 
sank down on the mossy bank, while the 
others gathered round her with anxious 
faces. 

“ It will go off in a minute. I ’m afraid I 


THE PICNIC 


75 


am not strong enough to play this any more, 
girls. Rough games never suit me.” 

Mary flushed and looked at Sue ; but Sues 
gaze was fixed on Clarice, all contrition. “ My 
dear ! I am so sorry ! You see, we ’ve never 
been delicate, and we don’t know how; we 
don’t even know what it ’s like. Lie down, 
dear, and rest again ! Oh, Mary, I feel as if 
we were murderers. See how white she is! 
Do you think she is going to die ? ” 

This was more than Mary could stand. “ I 
think you would be better, Clarice,” she said 
bluntly, “ if you loosened your dress a little. 
Sha’n’t I let out your belt for you ? ” 

But Clarice cried out, and declared her 
dress was too loose already. “ I never wear 
anything tight,” she said—“never! See, I 
can put my whole hand up under my belt.” 
And so she could, when she drew her breath 
in. “No,” she said ; “it is my heart, I fear. 
I suppose I shall never be strong like some 
people. But don’t mind me ! Go on playing, 
and I will watch you.” 

But three were not enough for Plunder; 
and besides, the heart for playing seemed to 


76 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


be gone out of them all, except Lily, who 
pouted and hung her head, and thought this 
a very poor kind of picnic indeed. Clarice 
lay on the bank and fanned herself, looking 
utterly bored, as indeed she was. Sue re¬ 
garded her with wide, remorseful eyes, and 
wondered what she ought to do. In despera¬ 
tion, Mary proposed lunch. 

“ I am getting hungry ! ” she said. “ Are n’t 
you, girls ? It will take a little time to get 
the things out and trim the table; let ’s be¬ 
gin now.” 

All agreed with alacrity, and there was 
some animation as the baskets were un¬ 
packed and their contents spread on the 
“ table,” which was green and smooth, and 
had no legs. The platters were made of oak- 
leaves neatly plaited together. The chicken- 
pie was set out, the cakes and turnovers be¬ 
side it, with doughnuts and sandwiches at 
convenient intervals. Sue tumbled the ba¬ 
nanas and the cocoanut out of her blouse, 
and piled them in an artistic pyramid, tuck¬ 
ing in fern-fronds and oak-leaves. 

“There!” she said, surveying the effect 


THE PICNIC 


77 


with her head on one side. “That is pretty, 
is n’t it, Mary—I mean Clarice?” 

Mary pressed her lips together and 
squeezed Lily’s hand hard. Clarice said it 
was “ perfectly alegant,” and then asked again 
if the gentlemen were coming. 

“ Gentlemen ! ” said Sue. “ Oh, how funny 
you are, Clarice ! Mary, is n’t she funny ? 
The idea of calling the boys gentlemen ! ” 

“ I hope they are ! ” was on the tip of Mary’s 
tongue; but she refrained, and only said it 
was time they were here. As if in answer to 
her words, a joyous whoop was heard, and a 
scuttling among the branches. Next moment 
Tom and Teddy burst into the open, out of 
breath, as usual, tumbling over each other 
and over their words in their eagerness. 

“ Hallo ! Hallo, Quicksilver ! Are we late ? ” 
“ I say ! we stopped to get some apples. 
Did you remember apples? I knew you 
would n’t, so we—” 

“ And we found a woodchuck —” 

“ Oh, I say, Mary, you should have seen 
him! He sat up in the door of his hole, 
and —” 


78 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Salt! you forgot the salt, Ballast, and 
Mammy sent it. Saccarappa ! it’s all spilled 
into my pocket. Do you mind a few crumbs ? ” 

“ Boys ! boys ! ” said Mary, who had been 
trying in vain to make herself heard, “do be 
quiet! I want to introduce you to Miss Pack¬ 
ard. Clarice, these are my brothers, Tom 
and Teddy.” 

The boys had no hats to take off,— they 
wore hats on Sunday, though!— but they 
bowed with the short, decisive duck of four¬ 
teen (indeed, Tom was fifteen, but he did not 
look it), and tried to compose their features. 
“ Do ! ” they murmured ; then, at a severe look 
from Mary, they came forward, and each 
extended a grimy paw and shook Clarice’s 
gloved hand solemnly, leaving marks on it. 
The ceremony over, they breathed again, and 
dropped on the grass. 

“ Is n’t this jolly ? ” they cried. “ Ready 
for grub ? We are half starved.” 

Clarice’s look was almost tragic as she 
turned upon Sue. “ Are these the boys you 
meant ? ” she asked in a whisper that was 
fully audible. ‘‘ These — little — ragamuffins? ” 



EACH CAME FORWARD AND SHOOK CLARICE’S GLOVED HAND 

SOLEMNLY.” 














































THE PICNIC 


81 


Fortunately, Mary was talking to Teddy, 
and did not hear. Sue did, and for the first 
time her admiration for Clarice received a 
shock. She raised her head and looked full 
at Clarice, her hazel eyes full of fire. “ I don’t 
understand you,” she said. “ These are my 
friends; I invited them because you asked 
me to.” 

Clarice’s eyes fell; she colored, and muttered 
something, Sue did not hear what; then she 
put her hand to her side and drew a short, 
gasping breath. 

In an instant Sue’s anger was gone. 
“ Boys ! ” she cried hastily. “ Tom, bring some 
water, quick ! She’s going to faint.” 

Clarice was now leaning back with closed 
eyes. “ Never mind me,” she murmured 
softly ; “ go on and enjoy yourselves. I shall 
be — better — soon, I dare say.” 

Splash ! came a shower of water in her face. 
Tom, in eager haste, had stumbled over Sue’s 
foot, and his whole dipperful of water was 
spilled over the fainting maiden. She sprang 
to her feet with amazing agility. 

“ You stupid, stupid boy! ” she cried, stamp- 


8 2 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


ing her foot, her eyes blazing with fury. 
“ You did it on purpose ; you know you did ! 
Get away this minute ! ” 

Then, while all looked on in silent amaze, 
she burst into tears, and declared she would 
go home that instant. She would not stay 
there to be made a fool of by odious, rude, 
vulgar boys. 

There was dead silence for a moment. Then 
Tom said, slowly and solemnly (no one could 
be so solemn as Tom when he tried): “ I beg 
your pardon, Miss Packard ; I am very sorry. 
I will go away if you wish it, but I hope you 
will stay.” 

Sue wanted to hug Tom, but refrained. 
(She had decided a little while ago that she 
was getting too big to hug the boys any more.) 
“Tom, you are a darling,” she whispered in 
his ear—“a perfect dear duck! And you 
can use the telephone all you like to-morrow. 
Clarice,” she added aloud, “ he has apolo¬ 
gized ; Tom has apologized, and that is all 
he can do, is n’t it ? You are all right now, 
are n’t you ? ” 


THE PICNIC 


83 


Clarice hesitated. Her dignity was on the 
one hand, her dinner on the other ; she was 
hungry, and she yielded. 

“ If he did n’t really mean to,” she began 
ungraciously; but Mary cut her short with 
what the boys called her full-stop manner. 

“ I think there has been quite enough of 
this foolishness,” she said curtly. “ Sue, will 
you pass the sandwiches ? Have some chicken- 
pie, Clarice ! ” 

A sage has said that food stops sorrow, 
and so it proved in this case. The chicken- 
pie was good, and all the children felt won¬ 
derfully better after the second help all round. 
Tongues were loosed, and chattered merrily. 
The boys related with many chuckles their 
chase of the woodchuck, and how he finally 
escaped them, and they heard him laughing 
as he scuttled off. 

“Well, he was laughing — woodchuck 
laughter; you ought just to have heard him, 
Mary.” 

Sue made them all laugh by telling of her 
encounter with Katy and the milk-pan. Even 


8 4 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Clarice warmed up after her second glass of 
shrub, and told them of the picnics they had 
at Saratoga, where she had been last year. 

“ That was why I was so surprised at this 
kind of picnic, dear,” she said to Sue, with a 
patronizing air. “ It's so different, you see. 
The last one I went to, there were — oh, there 
must have been sixty people at the very least. 
It was perfectly alegant! There were two 
four-in-hands, and lots of drags and tandems. 
I went in a dog-cart with Fred. You know — 
the one I told you about.” She nodded mys¬ 
teriously and simpered, and Sue flushed with 
delighted consequence. 

“ What did you take ? ” asked Lily, her 
mouth full of chicken. 

“ Oh, a caterer furnished the refreshments,” 
said Clarice, airily. “ There was everything 
you can think of: salads, and ice-cream, and 
boned turkey, and all those things. Perfectly 
fine, it was ! Everybody ate till they could n’t 
hardly move ; it was alegant! ” 

“ Did n’t you do anything but just gob — 
I mean eat ? ” asked Mary. 

“ Oh, there was a band of music, of course ; 


THE PICNIC 


85 


and we walked about some, and looked at 
the dresses. They were perfectly alegant! I 
wore a changeable taffeta, blue and red, and a 
red hat with blue birds in it. Everybody said 
it was just as cute ! The reporter for the ‘ Morn¬ 
ing Howl ’ was there, and he said it was the 
handsomest costume at the picnic. He was 
a perfect gentleman, and everything I had on 
was in the paper next day.” 

“This is soul-stirring,” said Tom (who did 
sometimes show that he was fifteen, though 
not often), “ but did n’t I hear something about 
toasts ? ” 

Clarice looked vexed, but Mary took up 
the word eagerly. “Yes, to be sure, Tom; 
it is quite time for toasts. Fill the glasses 
again, Teddy! Clarice, you are the guest of 
honor ; will you give the first toast ? ” 

Clarice shook her head, and muttered some¬ 
thing about not caring for games. 

“Then I will!” cried Sue; and she stood 
up, her eyes sparkling. 

“ I drink to Clarice ! ” she said. “ I hope 
she will grow strong, and never have any 
heart again,— I mean any pain in it,— and 


86 QUICKSILVER SUE 

that she will stay here a long, long time, till 
she grows up ! ” 

Teddy choked over his glass, but the others 
said “ Clarice ! ” rather soberly, and clinked 
their glasses together. Clarice, called upon 
for a speech in response to the toast, simpered, 
and said that Sue was too perfectly sweet for 
anything, but could think of nothing more. 
Then Tom was called upon. He rose slowly, 
and lifted his glass. 

“ I drink to the health of Quicksilver Sue! 

May she shun the false, and seek the true!” 

Mary gave him a warning glance, but Sue 
was enchanted. “ Oh, Tom, how dear of 
you to make it in poetry! ” she cried, flushing 
with pleasure. “Wait; wait just a minute, 
and I ’ll make my speech.” 

She stood silent, holding up her glass, in 
which the sunbeams sparkled, turning the 
liquid to molten rubies ; then she said rather 
shyly: 

“ I drink to Tom, the manly Hart, 

And wish him all the poet’s art! ” 

This was received with great applause. 


THE PICNIC 


87 


Mary’s turn came next; but before she could 
speak, Clarice had sprung to her feet with a 
wild shriek. “ A snake ! ” she cried ; “ a 
snake ! I saw it! It ran close by my foot. 
Oh, I shall faint! ” 

Teddy clapped his hand to his pocket, and 
looked shamefaced. 

“ I thought I had buttoned him in safe,” he 
said. “I’m awfully sorry. The other one is 
in there all right; it was only the little one 
that got out.” 

But this was too much for Clarice. She 
declared that she must go home that instant; 
and after an outcry from Sue no one opposed 
her. The baskets were collected, the crumbs 
scattered for the birds, and the party started 
for home. Mary and her brothers led the 
way with Lily, Sue and Clarice following 
slowly behind with arms intertwined. Sue’s 
face was a study of puzzled regret, self- 
reproach, and affection. 

“ Mary,” said Tom. 

“ Hush, Tom ! ” said Mary, with a glance 
over her shoulder. “ Don’t say anything till 
we get home.” 


88 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ I ’m not going to say anything. But 
what famous book — the name of it, I mean 
— expresses what has been the matter with 
this picnic ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know, Tom. ‘ Much Ado 
about Nothing ’ ? ” 

“ No,” said Tom. “ It’s ‘ Ben Hur ’ ! ” 


CHAPTER VI 

AT THE HOTEL 

H, Clarice, is n’t it too bad that it’s 
raining ? ” said Sue. “ It had n’t 
begun when I started. It did look 
a little threatening, though. And I meant to 
take you such a lovely walk, Clarice. I don’t 
suppose you want to go in the rain ? I love 
to walk in the rain, it’s such fun; but you are 
so delicate — ” 

“That ’s it,” said Clarice, ignoring the 
wistful tone in Sue’s voice. “ I should n’t 
dare to, Sue. There is consumption in my 
family, you know,”—she coughed slightly,— 
“ and it always gives me bronchitis to go out 
in the rain. Besides, I have such a head¬ 
ache ! Have some candy ? I ’ll show you 
my new dresses, if you like. They just came 

89 



9 o 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


this morning from New York — those muslins 
I told you about.” 

“ Oh, that will be fun ! ” said Sue. But as 
she took off her tam-o’-shanter she gave a 
little sigh, and glanced out of the window. 
The rain was coming down merrily. It was 
the first they had had for several weeks, and 
sight, sound, and smell were alike delightful. 
It would be such fun to tramp about and 
splash in the puddles and get all sopping! 
Last summer, when the drought broke, she 
and Mary put on their bathing-dresses, and 
capered about on the lawn and played “ del¬ 
uge,” and had a glorious time. But of course 
she was only twelve then, and now she was 
thirteen; and it made all the difference in the 
world, Clarice said. The water was coming 
in a perfect torrent from that spout! If you 
should hold your umbrella under it, it would 
go f-z-z-z-z-z ! and fly “ every which way ” ; 
that was centrifugal force, or something — 

“ Here they are,” said Clarice. 

Sue came back with a start, and became all 
eyes for the muslin dresses which were spread 
on the bed. They were too showy for a 


AT THE HOTEL 


9i 


young girl, and the trimmings were cheap 
and tawdry; but the colors were fresh and 
gay, and Sue admired them heartily. 

“Oh, Clarice, how lovely you will look in 
this one ! ” she cried. “ Don’t you want to 
try it on now, and let me see you in it ? ” 

Clarice asked nothing better, and in a few 
minutes she was arrayed in the yellow muslin 
with blue cornflowers. But now came a diffi¬ 
culty : the gown would not meet in the back. 

“Oh, what a shame!” said Sue. “Will 
you have to send it back, Clarice, or can you 
have it altered here ? There is a very good 
dressmaker; she makes all our clothes,— 
Mary’s and mine,— except what are made at 
home.” 

Clarice tittered. 

“I ’m afraid she would n’t be quite my 
style,” she said. “ I wondered where your 
clothes were made, you poor child! But this 
is all right. I ’ll just take in my stays a little, 
that’s all.” 

“ Oh, don’t, Clarice ! Please don’t! I am 
sure it will hurt you. Why, that would be 
tight lacing, and tight lacing does dreadful 


92 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


things to you. I learned about it at school. 
Dear Clarice, don’t do it, please ! ” 

“ Little goose! who said anything about 
tight lacing ? I ’m only going to — there ! 
Now look — I can put my whole hand in. You 
must n’t be so awfully countrified, Sue. You 
can’t expect every one to go about in a bag, 
as you and Mary Hart do. I am two years 
older than you, my dear, and I have n’t lived 
in a village all my life. It is likely that I know 
quite as much about such matters as you do.” 

“I — I beg your pardon, Clarice ! ” said 
Sue, the quick tears starting to her eyes. 
“ Of course you know a great, great deal 
more than I do ; I — I only thought —” 

“ There, do you see ? ” Clarice went on. 
“Now, that is real comfortable — perfectly 
comfortable ; and it does fit alegant, don’t it ? ” 
“ It certainly makes you look very slender,” 
faltered Sue. 

“ Don’t it ? ” repeated Clarice. “ That ’s 
what my dressmaker always says.” 

She was turning slowly round and round 
before the glass, enjoying the effect. “There 
is nothing like a slender figure, she says; 


AT THE HOTEL 


93 


and I think so, too. Why, Sue, if you ’ll 
promise never to tell a soul, I ’ll tell you 
something. I used to be fat when I was your 
age — almost as fat as Mary Hart. Just think 
of it! ” 

“ Oh, did you ? But Mary is n’t really fat, 
Clarice. She ’s only — well, rather square, 
you know, and chunky. That is the way she 
is made ; she has always been like that.” 

“ I call her fat! ” said Clarice, decisively. 
“ Of course, it’s partly the way she dresses, 
with no waist at all, and the same size all the 
way down. You would be just as bad, Sue, 
if you were n’t so slim. I don’t see what pos¬ 
sesses you to dress the way you do, making 
regular guys of yourselves. But I was going 
to tell you. My dressmaker — she’s an ale- 
gant fitter, and a perfect lady — told me to 
eat pickled limes all I could, and put lots of 
vinegar on everything, and I would get thin. 
My ! I should think I did. I used to eat six 
pickled limes every day in recess. I got so 
that I could n’t hardly eat anything but what 
it had vinegar in it. And I fell right away, 
in a few months, to what I am now.” 


94 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ Oh ! Oh, Clarice ! ” cried Sue, transfixed 
with horror. “ How could you ? Why, it must 
have made you ill; I know it must. Is that 
why you are so pale ? ” 

“ Partly that,” said Clarice, complacently. 
“ Partly, I used to eat slate-pencils. I have n’t 
had hardly any appetite for common food this 
year. The worst is these headaches I have 
right along. But I don’t care ! I should hate 
to have staring red cheeks like Mary Hart. 
Your color is different; it’s soft, and it comes 
and goes. But Mary Hart is dreadful beefy- 
looking.” 

“ Clarice,” said Sue, bravely, though she 
quivered with pain at the risk of offending 
her new friend, “ please don’t speak so of 
Mary. She is my oldest friend, you know, 
and I love her dearly. Of course I know you 
don’t mean to say anything unkind, but—but 
I ’d rather you did n’t, please.” 

“Why, I ’m not saying anything against 
her character! ” said Clarice; and any one 
save Sue might have detected a spiteful ring 
in her voice. “ I won’t say a word about her 
if you’d rather not, Sue, but if I do speak, I 


AT THE HOTEL 


95 


must say what I think. She ’s just as jealous 
of me as she can be, and she tries to make 
trouble between us — any one can see that; 
and I don’t care for her one bit, so there! ” 

“ Oh, Clarice, don’t say that! I thought we 
were all going to be friends together, and 
love one another, and — But you don’t really 
know Mary yet. She is a dear; really and 
truly she is.” 

Clarice tossed her head significantly. “Oh, 
I don’t want to make mischief! ” she said. 
“ Of course it does n’t matter to me, my dear. 
Of course I am only a stranger, Sue, and I 
can’t expect you to care for me half as much 
as you do for Mary Hart. Of course I am 
nobody beside her.” 

“ Clarice, Clarice, how can you ? Don’t 
talk so. It kills me to have you talk so! 
when you know how I love you, how I would 
do anything in the wide world for you, my 
dear, lovely Clarice ! ” 

Clarice pouted for some time, but finally 
submitted to be embraced and wept over, and 
presently became gracious once more, and 
said that all should be forgiven (she did not 


96 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


explain what there was to forgive), and only 
stipulated that they should not talk any more 
about Mary Hart. Then she changed the 
subject to the more congenial one of clothes, 
and became eloquent over some of the tri¬ 
umphs of her dressmaker. Finally, in a fit of 
generosity, she offered to let Sue try on the 
other muslin dress. Sue was enchanted. 
“ And then we can play something! ” she 
cried. “ Oh, there are all kinds of things we 
can play in these, Clarice.” 

“ I guess not! ” said Clarice. “ Play in my 
new dresses, and get them all tumbled ? Sue 
Penrose, you are too childish. I never saw 
anything like the way you keep wanting to 
play all the time. I should think you were 
ten, instead of thirteen.” 

Much abashed, Sue begged again for for¬ 
giveness. She did not see so very much fun 
in just putting on somebody else’s dress and 
then taking it off again, but she submitted 
meekly when Clarice slipped it over her head. 
But the same difficulty arose again: the dress 
would not come anywhere near meeting round 
Sue s free, natural figure. 


AT THE HOTEL 


97 


“ Here,” said Clarice; “wait a minute, Sue. 
I Ve got another pair of stays. We ’ll fix it 
in a moment.” 

Sue protested, but was overruled. Clarice 
was determined, she said, to see how her little 
friend would look if she were properly dressed 
for once. In a few moments she was fastened 
into the blue muslin, and Clarice was telling 
her that she looked too perfectly sweet for 
anything. 

“ Now that is the way for you to dress, Sue 
Penrose. If I were you I should insist upon 
my mother’s getting me a pair of stays to¬ 
morrow. Why, you look like a different girl. 
Why, you have an alegant figure — perfectly 
alegant! ” 

But poor Sue was in sore discomfort, and 
no amount of “ alegance ” could make her at 
ease. She could hardly breathe; she felt 
girded by a ring of iron. Oh, it was impos¬ 
sible ; it was unbearable ! 

“ I never, never could, Clarice ! ” she pro¬ 
tested. “ Unhook it for me ; please do ! Yes, 
it is very pretty, but I cannot wear it another 
moment.” 


9 8 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


She persisted, in spite of Clarice’s laughing 
and calling her a little countrified goose, and 
was thankful to find herself free once more, 
and back in her own good belted frock. 

“ Oh, Clarice,” she said, “ if you only knew 
how comfortable this was, you would have 
your dresses made so ; I know you would.” 

“ The idea ! ” said Clarice. “ I guess not, 
Sue. Have some more candy? My, how my 
head aches ! ” 

“ It is this close room,” said Sue, eagerly. 
“ Clarice, dear, you are looking dreadfully 
pale. See, it has stopped raining now. Do 
let us come out; I know the fresh air will do 
you good.” 

But Clarice shook her head, and said that 
walking always made her head worse, and 
she should get her death of cold, besides. 

“ Then lie down, and let me read to you. 
Why, I forgot; I have ‘ Rob Roy ’ in my 
pocket; I wondered what made it so heavy. 
I remember, now, I did think it might possibly 
rain, so I brought ‘ Rob ’ in case. There, 
dear, lie down and let me tuck you up. Oh, 
Clarice, you do look so lovely lying down ! I 


AT THE HOTEL 


99 


always think of you when I want to think of 
the Sleeping Beauty. There, now ; shut your 
eyes and rest, while I read.” 

Clarice detested “ Rob Roy,” but her head 
really did ache,—she had been eating candy 
all the afternoon and most of the morning,— 
and there was nothing else to do. She lay 
back and closed her eyes. They were dread¬ 
fully stupid people in this book, and she could 
hardly understand a word of the “Scotch 
stuff ” they talked. She wished she had 
brought “ Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an 
Hour,” or some other “alegant” paper novel. 
And thinking these thoughts, Clarice presently 
fell asleep, which was perhaps the best thing 
she could do. 

Sue read on and on, full of glory and rejoic¬ 
ing. Di Vernon was one of her favorite 
heroines, and she fairly lived in the story 
while she was reading it. She was in the 
middle of one of Di’s impassioned speeches 
when a sound fell on her ear, slight but un¬ 
mistakable. She looked up, her eyes like 
stars, the proud, ringing words still on her 
lips. Clarice was asleep, her head thrown 


IOO 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


back, her mouth open, peacefully snoring. 
Another snore, and another ! Sue closed the 
book softly. It was a pity that Clarice had 
lost that particular chapter, it was so splen¬ 
did ; but she was tired, poor darling, and her 
head ached. It was the best thing, of course, 
that she should have fallen asleep. Sue 
would watch her sleep, and keep all evil 
things away. It was not clear what evil 
things could come into the quiet room of the 
respectable family hotel, but whatever they 
might be, Sue was ready for them. 

Sue’s ideas of hotel life had become consid¬ 
erably modified since she had had some actual 
experience of it. Instead of being one round of 
excitement, as she had fancied, she was obliged 
to confess that it was often very dull. The 
Binns House was a quiet house, frequented 
mostly by “runners,” who came and went, 
and with a small number of permanent board¬ 
ers — old couples who were tired of house¬ 
keeping, or ancient single gentlemen. The 
frescoes and mirrors were there, but the latter 
reflected only staid middle-aged faces, or else 
those of bearded men who carried large hand- 


AT THE HOTEL 


IOI 


bags, and wore heavy gold watch-chains, and 
smelt of strong tobacco and cheap perfumery. 
Even the table, with its array of little cov¬ 
ered dishes that had once promised all the de¬ 
lights of fairy banquets, proved disappointing. 
To lift a shining cover which ought to conceal 
something wonderful with a French name, and 
to find squash — this was trying; and it had 
happened several times. Also, there was a 
great deal of mincemeat, and it did not com¬ 
pare with Katy’s. And the bearded men gob¬ 
bled, and pulled things about, and talked 
noisily. Altogether, it was as different as 
could well be imagined from Sue’s golden 
dream. And it was simply impossible to use 
the soap they had, it smelt so horribly. 

Hark! was that a foot on the stairs? Sup¬ 
pose something were really going to happen 
now, while Clarice was asleep ! Suppose she 
should hear voices, and the door should open 
softly, softly, and a villainous face look in — a 
bearded face, not fat and good-natured look¬ 
ing like those people’s at dinner, but a hag¬ 
gard face with hollow, burning eyes and a 
savage scowl. Some robber had heard of 


102 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Clarice’s jewelry and her father’s wealth, and 
had come all the way from New York (there 
were no robbers in Hilton) to rob, perhaps 
to murder her. Ah! but Sue would fling 
herself before the unconscious sleeper, and 
cry: “Back, villain, or I slay thee with my 
hands ! ” He might go then ; but if he did n’t, 
she would throw the lamp at him. She and 
Mary had decided long ago that that was the 
best thing to do to a robber when you had no 
weapons, because the oil and glass together 
would be sure to frighten him. And — and 
— oh ! what was that ? 

This time it was no fancy. A man’s voice 
was heard in the hall below; a man’s foot 
came heavily up the stairs, and passed into 
the next room. A hand was laid on the 
latch. 

“ Clarissy, are you here? ” asked the voice. 

Sue sprang to her feet. It was Mr. Pack¬ 
ard. What should she do? Mr. Packard 
was no robber, but Sue did not like him, and 
it seemed quite out of the question that he 
should find her here, with Clarice asleep. 
Seizing her tarn and her jacket, and slipping 


AT THE HOTEL 


103 


“Rob Roy” into her pocket, she opened the 
window softly, and stepped out on the bal¬ 
cony which formed the roof of the hotel porch. 
She might have gone out of the other door, 
but the window was nearer; besides, it was 
much more exciting, and he might have seen 
her in the passage. Sue closed the window 
behind her, with a last loving glance at Cla¬ 
rice, who snored quietly on; and just as Mr. 
Packard entered the room she climbed over 
the balustrade and disappeared from sight. 

“What upon earth is that?” asked Mrs. 
Binns, looking out of the window of the office, 
which was on the ground floor. “ Somebody 
shinnin’ down the door-post! — a boy, is it? 
Do look, Mr. Binns. I ain’t got my glasses.” 

Mr. Binns looked. 

“Well, I should say!” he remarked, with 
a slow chuckle. “ It ’s Mis’ Penrose’s little 
gal. Well, she is a young ’un, to be sure ! 
Be’n up to see the Packard gal, I s’pose. 
Now, you’d think she’d find the door easier; 
most folks would. But it would n’t be Sue 
Penrose to come out the door while the’ was 
a window handy by, and a post.” 


104 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ Sue Penrose is gettin’ too big to go 
shinnin’ round the street that way,” said Mrs. 
Binns. “ I don’t care for that Packard gal 
myself; she ’s terrible forthputtin’, and 
triflin’ and greedy, besides; but you would n’t 
see her shinnin’ down door-posts, anyway.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Mr. Binn. “ She don’t 
know enough! ” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 

ARY ! Mary Hart! I want to speak 
to you. Are you alone ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mary, looking up 
from her mending. “ I am just finishing 
Teddy’s stockings; he does tear them so. 
Come in, Sue.” 

“ Hush! No; I want you to come out, 
Mary. It ’s something very important. 
Don’t say a word to any one, but come down 
to the arbor this minute. I must see you 
alone. Oh, I am so excited ! ” 

The arbor was at the farther end of the 
Harts’ garden — a pleasant, mossy place with 
seats, and a great vine climbing over it. 
Mary put away her basket methodically, and 

io 5 




IO6 QUICKSILVER SUE 

joined Sue, whom she found twittering with 
excitement. 

“ Oh, Mary, what do you think ? But first 
you must promise not to tell a living soul. 
Honest and true, black and blue ! Promise, 
Mary, or my lips are sealed forever ! ” 

“ I promise,” said Mary, without thinking. 

Sue’s tremendous secrets were not gener¬ 
ally very alarming. 

Sue drew a long breath, looked around her, 
said “ Hush ! ” two or three times, and began : 

“Is n’t it perfectly splendid, Mary? The 
circus is coming to Chester on the 24th, 
and Clarice and I are going. It is going 
to be the greatest show in the world; the 
paper says so; and I ’ve seen the pictures, 
and they are simply glorious. Is n’t it fine? 
Clarice has asked me to spend the day with 
her at the hotel, and Mother says I may; and 
Clarice is going to treat me. Mary, she is 
the most generous girl that ever lived in this 
world. You don’t half appreciate her, but 
she is.” 

“ Who is going to take you to the circus ? ” 
asked practical Mary. “ Mr. Packard ? ” 


THE MYSTERY 


107 


“ Hush ! No. That is the exciting part of 
it. We are going alone, just by ourselves.” 

“Sue! You cannot! Go up to Chester 
alone—just you two girls?” 

“Why not? Clarice is much older than I, 
you know, Mary. Clarice is fifteen, and she 
says it is perfectly absurd for us to be such 
babies as we are. She says that in New 
York girls of our age wear dresses almost 
full length, and put up their hair, and — and 
all kinds of things. She says it’s just be¬ 
cause we live down East here that we are so 
countrified. And she knows all about going 
to places, and she has lots of money, and — 
and so — oh, Mary, is n’t it exciting ? ” 

“What does your mother say?” asked 
Mary, slowly. “Is she willing, Sue?” 

“ I am not going to tell her! ” said Sue. 

Her tone was defiant, but she colored high, 
and did not look at Mary as she spoke. 

“You are not — going — to tell your 
mother?” repeated Mary, in dismay. “Oh, 
Sue! ” 

“ Now, hush, hush, Mary Hart, and listen 
to me ! Clarice says what’s the use ? She 


108 QUICKSILVER SUE 

says it would only worry Mother, and I 
ought not to worry her when she is so deli¬ 
cate. She says she thinks it is a great 
mistake for girls to keep running to their 
mothers about everything when they are as 
big as we are. She never does, she says— 
well, it’s her aunt, but that makes no differ¬ 
ence, she says; and she is fifteen, you know. 
Besides, my mother is very different from 
yours; you know she is, Mary. I suppose I 
should want to tell things to your mother if 
she was mine. But you know perfectly well 
how Mamma is; she never seems to care, 
and it only bothers her and makes her head 
ache.” 

“ Sue, how can you talk so ? Your mother 
is ill so much of the time, of course she can’t 
— can’t be like my Mammy, I suppose.” 

Mary faltered a little as she said this. She 
had often wished that Mrs. Penrose would 
take more interest in Sue’s daily life, but she 
felt that this was very improper talk. 

“ I don’t think you ought to talk so, Sue ! ” 
she said stoutly. “ I am sure you ought 
not, I think Clarice Packard has a very bad 


THE MYSTERY 


109 

influence over you, and I wish she had never 
come here.” 

“ Clarice says you are jealous, Mary, and 
that you try to make trouble between her and 
me. I don’t believe that; but you have no 
imagination, and you cannot appreciate Cla¬ 
rice. If you knew what she has done for me 

— how she has opened my eyes.” 

Sue’s vivid face deepened into tragedy. 
“ Mary, I believe I will tell you, after all. I 
did n’t mean to,— Clarice warned me not to, 

— but I will. Mary, there is a mystery in 
my life. Hush! don’t speak — don’t say a 
word ! I am a foundling ! ” 

If Mary had been less amazed and dis¬ 
tressed, she must have laughed aloud. Sue, 
in her brown holland frock, her pretty hair 
curling round her face, her eyes shining with 
excitement, was the very image of her mother. 
As it was, Mary could only gasp, and gaze 
round-eyed. 

“ I am ! I am sure of it! ” Sue hurried on. 
“ It explains everything, Mary: Mamma’s 
not caring more, and my feeling the way I 
do, and everything. Clarice says she is sure 


no 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


it must be so. She knows a girl, the most 
beautiful girl she ever saw, and she never 
knew it till she grew up, because they were 
so fond of her; but she was left on their door¬ 
step in a wicker basket lined with pink satin, 
and a note pinned to her clothes saying that 
her parents were English noblemen, but they 
never would acknowledge her because she 
was n’t a boy. And so! And you know I 
have always felt that there was something 
wrong , Mary Hart, and that I was not like 
other children ; you know I have ! ” 

“ I know you have often talked very fool¬ 
ishly,” said Mary, “but I never heard you 
say anything wicked before. Sue, this is 
downright wicked, and ridiculous and absurd 
besides. I never heard such nonsense in my 
life, and I don’t want to hear any more of it.” 

Both girls had risen to their feet, and stood 
facing each other. Mary was flushed with 
distress and vexation; but Sue had turned 
very pale. 

“Very well!” she said, after a pause. “I 
see Clarice is right. You have a mean, jeal¬ 
ous spirit, Mary. I thought I could tell the 


THE MYSTERY 


111 

— the great thing of my life, to my most 
intimate friend,— for you have been my most 
intimate friend,— and you would understand ; 
but you don’t. You never have understood 
me; Clarice has said so from the beginning, 
and now I know she is right. At least, I have 
one friend who can feel for me. Good-by, Mary 

— forever! ” 

“ Oh, Sue! ” cried Mary, wanting to laugh 
and cry together. But Sue was gone, dash¬ 
ing through the garden at tempest speed, 
and flinging the gate to behind her with a 
crash. 

Mary went into the house, and cried till 
she could not see. But there were no tears 
for Sue. She ran up to her room, and locked 
the door. Then, after looking carefully 
around, she drew out from under the bed an 
old brown leather writing-desk, produced a 
key that hung by a ribbon round her neck, 
unlocked the desk, and took out a faded red 
morocco blank-book. It had once been 
an account-book, and had belonged to her 
grandfather; the great thing about it was 
that it had a lock and key ! Opening it, Sue 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


112 

found a blank page, and flinging herself over 
the table, began to write furiously: 

“ Mary and I have parted—parted forever. 
She was my dearest upon earth, but I know 
her no more. Her name is Hart, but she has 
none, or at least it is of marble. I am very 
unhappy, a poor foundling, with but one 
friend in the world. I sit alone in my gloomy 
garet.” (The sun was pouring in at the win¬ 
dow, but Sue did not see it.) “ My tears blot 
the page as I write.” (She tried to squeeze out 
a tear, failed, and hurried on.) “ My affecktions 
are blited, but I am proud, and they shall see 
that I don’t care one bit how mean they are. 
I am of noble blood, I feel it corsing in my 
viens, and I should n’t wonder a bit if I were 
a princess. And if I die young, Mary Hart 
can come and shed tears on my moniment 
and be sorry she acted so.” 

Meantime, in the room below, little Lily 
was saying: “ Mamma, I wish I had some one 
to play with. Could n’t you get me another 
sister, about my age ? Sue says she is too 
old to play with me! ” And Mrs. Penrose 
was sighing, and wondering again why her 



I i » 


MARY AND I HAVE PARTED —PARTED FOREVER 





THE MYSTERY 


15 


elder child was not the comfort to her that 
Mary Hart was to her mother. 

The days that followed were sad ones for 
Mary. The intimacy between her and Sue 
had been so close that they had never felt 
the need of other friends; and, indeed, in 
their small neighborhood it happened that 
there were no pleasant girls of their own age. 
It had not seemed possible that anything 
could ever come between her and Sue. They 
loved to say that they were two halves, and 
only together made a whole. Now it was 
bitter to see Sue pass by on the other side of 
the home street with averted eyes and head 
held high. Mary tried to greet her as usual; 
for had they not said a hundred times how 
silly it was for girls to quarrel, and what spec¬ 
tacles they made of themselves behaving like 
babies ? 

But it was of no use. The breach was 
complete ; and Sue refused to speak to Mary, 
or even to recognize her, and had only the 
most frigid little nod for her brothers. Many 
a time did Mary curl up for comfort in her 
mothers lap, and rest her head on her shoul- 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


116 

der, and tell her how it hurt, and ask what she 
should do, and how she should live without 
her friend. She never failed to find comfort; 
and always, after a good little talk, there was 
something that Mrs. Hart particularly wanted 
done, and that Mary could help her so much 
with; and Mary found that there is no balm 
like work for a sore heart. 

One day Mrs. Hart said : “Mary, how would 
you like to ask little Lily to come and spend 
the afternoon with you ? Mrs. Penrose is 
really very far from well, and Sue seems to be 
entirely absorbed. It would be a kind thing 
to do, daughter.” 

So Lily came; and in making her happy 
Mary forgot the sore spot in her own heart. 
From that day the two were a good deal to¬ 
gether. Beside Sue’s glancing brightness 
Lily had seemed rather a dull child; or per¬ 
haps it was merely that Mary had no thought 
to give her, and felt with Sue that children 
were in the way when one wanted to talk 
seriously. But in Mary’s companionship the 
child expanded like a flower. She was so 
happy, so easily pleased. It was delightful to 


THE MYSTERY 


17 


see her face light up at sight of Mary. And 
Mary determined that, come what might, she 
and Lily would always be friends. “ And, 
Lily,” she would whisper, “if— no ! when we 
get our Sue back again, won’t she be sur¬ 
prised to see how much you have learned, 
and how many of our plays you know ? And 
there will be three of us then, Lily.” 

And Lily would smile and dimple, and look 
almost a little like Sue — almost! 

The boys, too, were a great comfort in 
those days. Never had Tom been so consid¬ 
erate, so thoughtful. Hardly a day passed 
but he would want Mary to play or walk or 
fish with him. She had never, it seemed, 
seen so much of Tom before, though he had 
always been the dearest boy in the world — 
except Teddy. 

“ Oh ! ” she cried one day, when Tom, after 
an hour’s patient search, found the silver 
thimble that she had carelessly dropped in 
the orchard— “oh, it is good to have a bro¬ 
ther Tom. I don’t see what girls do who 
have none.” 

“ It’s pretty nice to have a sister Mary,” 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


118 

said Tom, shyly; he was always shy when 
there was any question of feeling. “ Do you 
know, Ballast — do you know, I’ve never had 
so much sister Mary as I Ve been having lately. 
Of course it’s a great shame about Sue, and 
I miss her no end, and all that — but it ’s 
nice to have such a lot of you, dear.” 

Sister and brother exchanged a silent hug 
that meant a good deal, and Mary inwardly 
resolved that, come what might, Tom should 
always hereafter have all the sister Mary he 
wanted. 

“And it ’s simply no end for Lily,” Tom 
added. “ Lily has never had a fair chance, 
you know, Mary.” 

“ Lily is a very nice little girl,” said Teddy, 
with kind condescension. “ There’s a great 
deal more in Lily than people think. Mary, 
if you are going over there, you might take 
her these horse-chestnuts. She likes the 
milky ones, before they turn brown.” 

“ Take them yourself, Master Teddy! ” said 
Mary, laughing. “You know it’s what you 
want to do. Bring her over, and we ’ll go 
and play in the orchard, all four of us. We ’ll 
play ‘Wolf,’ if you like.” 


THE MYSTERY 


119 

“ Oh, no! ” cried Teddy. “ Let ’s play 
‘ Indian ’; let’s play ‘ The Last of the Mo’s.’ 
We have n’t played that for ever and ever 
so long.” 

“ Lily does n’t know ‘ The Last of the Mo¬ 
hicans,’ ” said Mary. “ She has never read it. 
I ’ll read it to her, I think. We might be¬ 
gin the next rainy day, boys, and all read 
together.” 

“ Hooray ! ” said both boys. 

“I can be making my new net,” said Tom. 

“ And I can work on my boat,” said Teddy. 

“ And I have about six dozen things to 
make for Christmas ! ” said Mary, laughing. 
“ Who is to do the reading, I should like to 
know ? ” 

“ Oh, Mammy will read it to us.” 

“ All right! Hurrah for Mammy ! Of course 
she will.” 

“ But that is no reason why we should not 
play ‘ The Last of the Mo’s ’ now,” resumed 
Tom. “We can tell Lily enough, as we go 
along, to show her what it ’s like, and of 
course she would n’t take an important part, 
anyway—just a squaw or an odd brave. Cut 
along, Teddy, and bring the kid over./’ 


120 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Lily came hurrying back with Teddy; and 
the four stood for a moment together by the 
front door, laughing and chatting, and giving 
out the parts for the game. They had never 
played it before without Sue. Mary would 
rather not have played it now, but that seemed 
no reason why the boys should not have their 
favorite game, and no doubt Tom could play 
Uncas very well — though, of course, not as 
well, even if he was a boy. 

Tom was just striking an attitude and bran¬ 
dishing an imaginary tomahawk, when, on the 
opposite side of the street, Sue came along, 
arm in arm, as usual, with Clarice Packard. 
The Hart children looked in dismay. Was 
this their Sue ? Something was wrong with 
her hair. It was rolled up high over her 
forehead, and bobbed up into a short cue 
behind. Something was wrong with her feet; 
at least, so it seemed from the way she 
walked, mincing on her toes. And she had 
a spotted veil on, and she carried a parasol. 
Was this their Quicksilver Sue? Could it 
be? 

As they passed, Clarice looked across the 


THE MYSTERY 


12 I 


way and bowed a triumphant little bow; then 
tittered rudely, and whispered something in 
her companion’s ear. Sue held her head 
high, and was walking past looking straight 
before her, as she always did now, when sud¬ 
denly it seemed as if some feeling took hold 
upon her, stronger than her own will. She 
turned her head involuntarily, and looked at 
the group standing on the familiar door-step. 
A wave of color swept over her face; the 
tears rushed into her eyes. For a moment 
she seemed to waver, almost to sway toward 
them; then resolutely she turned her head 
away again, and walked on. 

“ Mary,” said Tom, “do you know what?” 

“ No, Tom. I don’t know this particular 
‘what.’ I know — what you saw just now.” 
And poor Mary looked as if the heart for play 
was clean gone out of her. 

“ Well, I ’ll tell you. Our Sue has had just 
about enough of her new treasure. I ’ll bet 
my new fishing-line that she would give all 
her best boots to come and play ‘ Last of the 
Mo’s’ with us in the orchard.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE CIRCUS 

OM was right. That moment was 
the turning-point for Sue Penrose. 
When she saw that group on the 
familiar door-step across the way, something 
seemed to clutch at her heart, something 
seemed to fall from her eyes. What did this 
all mean ? There were her friends, her dear 
old friends, with their honest faces and their 
clear, kind, true eyes. She had seen the 
longing look in Mary’s eyes, and Tom’s grave 
glance which seemed to say that he was sorry 
for her. It was the afternoon playtime, and 
they were all going to play together some of 
the happy boy-and-girl plays in which she, 
Sue, had always been the leader; and she was 



122 



THE CIRCUS 


123 


not with them. She had lost them all, and 
for what ? All at once, Clarice’s giggle, her 
whispered talk of dresses and parties and 
“ gentlemen friends ” sounded flat and silly 
and meaningless. What did Sue care for 
such stuff? How could she ever have thought 
she cared ? What would she not give for a 
good romp in the orchard, and a talk with 
Mary afterward! A small voice said in her 
heart: “ Go back ! A kiss to Mary, a word 
to the boys, and all will be forgotten. Go 
back now, before it is too late! ” 

But two other voices spoke louder in Sue’s 
ear, drowning the voice of her heart. One 
was pride. “ Go back ? ” it said. “ Confess 
that you have been wicked and silly ? Let 
the boys and Lily see you humbling yourself 
— you, who have always been the proud one? 
Never!” The other was loyalty, or rather a kind 
of chivalry that was a part of Sue. “ You can¬ 
not desert Clarice,” said this voice. “ She is 
a stranger here, and she depends upon you. 
She is delicate and sensitive, and you are the 
only person who understands her; she says so. 
She is n’t exactly nice in some ways, but the 


124 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


others are hard on her, and you must stand 
by her. You cannot go back ! ” 

So when Clarice tittered, and whispered 
something about Mary’s dress, Sue pressed 
her arm, and straightened herself and walked 
on, looking steadfastly before her. 

“My! Sue, what is the matter?” her com¬ 
panion asked. “You look as cross as a 
meat-ax. No wonder! I call the way that 
boy stared at you downright impudent. They 
seem to have taken up with Lily, now that 
they can’t get you. He, he ! ” 

And a new sting was planted in Sue’s 
heart, already sore enough. Yes; they had 
taken up with Lily ; Lily was filling her place. 

Sue took the pain home with her, and car¬ 
ried it about all day, and many a day. The 
little sister had never been much to her, as 
we have seen. Her own life had been so 
overflowing with matters that seemed to her 
of vital importance that she had never had 
much time to bestow on the child who was too 
old to be set down with blocks and doll and 
told to amuse herself, and yet was too young 


THE CIRCUS 


25 


— or so Sue thought — to share the plays 
of the older children. She had “wished to 
goodness ” that Lily had some friend of her 
own age; and “Don’t bother!” was the an¬ 
swer that rose most frequently to her lips 
when Lily begged to be allowed to play with 
her and Mary. 

“ Don’t bother, Lily. Run along and amuse 
yourself; that’s a good girl! We are busy 
just now.” She had never meant to be un¬ 
kind ; she just had n’t thought, that was all. 

Well, Lily did not have to be told now not 
to bother. There was no danger of her ask¬ 
ing to join Sue and Clarice, for the latter had 
from the first shown a dislike to the child 
which was heartily returned. People who 
“ think children are a nuisance ” are not apt 
to be troubled by their company. 

After the morning hour during which she 
sat with their mother, reading to her and 
helping her in various ways (how was it, by 
the way, that Lily had got into the way of 
doing this? she, Sue, had never had time, or 
had never thought of it!), Lily was always 


12 6 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


over at the Harts’ in these days. Often when 
Sue and Clarice were sitting upstairs, talking, 
— oh, such weary, empty, stupid talk, it 
seemed now ! —the sound of Lily’s happy 
laughter would come from over the way and 
ring in her sister’s ears. 

They were playing Indians again, were 
they? “The Last of the Mohicans”! Tom 
was Hawkeye, of course; but who was 
Uncas in her stead? She had always been 
Uncas. She knew a good many of his 
speeches by heart. Ah ! she thrilled, recall¬ 
ing the tremendous moment when the Dela¬ 
wares discover the tortoise tattooed on the 
breast of the young hero. She recalled how 
“for a single instant Uncas enjoyed his tri¬ 
umph, smiling calmly on the scene. Then 
motioning the crowd away with a high and 
haughty sweep of the arm, he advanced in 
front of the nation with the air of a king, and 
spoke in a voice louder than the murmur of 
admiration that ran through the multitude. 

“ ‘ Men of the Lenni-Lenape,’ he said, ‘my 
race upholds the earth. Your feeble tribe 
stands on my shell. What fire that a Dela- 


THE CIRCUS 


127 


ware can light would burn the child of my 
fathers ? ’ he added, pointing proudly to the 
simple blazonry on his skin. ‘ The blood 
that came from such a stock would smother 
your flames ! ’ ” 

Ah! and then the last speech, that she 
always spoke leaning against a tree, with her 
arms folded on her breast, and her gaze fixed 
haughtily on the awe-struck spectators: “Pale¬ 
face ! I die before my heart is soft! ” and so 
on. They all said she did that splendidly — 
better than any one else. 

What was Clarice saying ? 

“ And I said to him, I said: ‘ I don’t know 
what you mean,’ I said. ‘ Oh, yes, you do,’ 
he said. ‘ No, I don’t,’ I said. ‘ I think 
you ’re real silly,’ I said. And he said: ‘ Oh, 
don’t say that,’ he said. ‘Well, I shall,’ I 
said. ‘ You ’re just as silly as you can be ! ’ ” 
And so on and so on, till Sue could have fallen 
asleep for sheer weariness, save for those 
merry voices in her ear and the pain at her 
heart. 

But when Clarice was gone, Sue unlocked 
her journal and wrote : 


128 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ I am very unhappy, and no one cares. I 
am alone in the world, and I feel that I have 
not long to live. My cheek is hollo, and 
my eyes gleam with an unnatural light; but I 
shall rest in the grave and no one will mom 
for me. I hear the voices of my former 
friends, but they think no more of the lonely 
outcast. I do hope that if I should live to be 
fifteen I shall have more sense than some 
people have ; but she is all I have left in the 
world, and I will be faithful to death. They 
have taken my sister from me—” But when 
she had written these last words Sue blushed 
hotly, and drew her pen through them; for 
she was an honest child, and she knew they 
were not true. 

Then she went downstairs. Her room was 
too lonely, and everything in it spoke too 
plainly of Mary. She could not stay there. 

Mrs. Penrose looked up as she entered the 
sitting-room. “ Oh ! it is you, Sue,” she said, 
with her little weary air ; “ I thought it was 
Lily.” 

“ Would you like me to read to you, 
Mamma ? ” asked Sue, with a sudden impulse. 


THE CIRCUS 


129 


“ Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Penrose, 
doubtfully; “is n’t Clarice here? Yes, I 
should like it very much, Sue. My eyes are 
rather bad to-day.” 

Sue read for an hour, and forgot the pain 
at her heart. When the reading was over, 
her mother said : “ Thank you, my dear; that 
was a real treat. How well you read, Sue ! ” 

“ Let me read to you every day, Mother,” 
said Sue. She kissed her mother warmly; 
and, standing near her, noticed for the first 
time how very pale and thin she was, how 
transparent her cheek and hands. Her heart 
smote her with a new pain. How much more 
she saw, now that she was unhappy herself! 
She had never thought much about her 
mother’s ill health. She was an “ invalid,” 
and that seemed to account for everything. 
At least, she could be a better daughter while 
she lived, and could help her mother in the 
afternoon, as Lily did in the morning. 

The day of the circus came. A week ago, 
how Sue had looked forward to it! It was to 
be the crowning joy of the season, the great, 


130 QUICKSILVER SUE 

the triumphal day. But now all was changed. 
She had no thought of “backing out”; an 
engagement once made was a sacred thing 
with Sue; but she no longer saw it wreathed 
in imaginary glories. The circus was fun, of 
course; but she was not going in the right 
way, she knew — in fact, she was going in a 
very naughty way ; and Clarice was no longer 
the enchanting companion she had once 
seemed, who could cast a glamour over every¬ 
thing she spoke of. Sue even suggested 
their consulting Mr. Packard; but Clarice 
raised a shrill clamor. 

“ Sue, don’t speak of such a thing ! Puppa 
would lock me up if he had any idea; he ’s 
awfully strict, you know. And we have both 
vowed never to tell; you know we have, Sue. 
You vowed on this sacred relic; you know 
you did! ” 

The sacred relic was a battered little medal 
that Clarice said had come from Jerusalem 
and been blessed by the Pope. As this was 
almost the only flight of fancy she had ever 
shown, Sue clung to the idea, and had made 


THE CIRCUS 


131 

the vow with all possible solemnity, feeling 
like Hannibal and Robert of Normandy in 
one. This was not, however, until after she 
had told Mary of the plan ; but, somehow, she 
had not mentioned that to Clarice. Mary 
would not tell, of course; perhaps, at the 
bottom of her heart, Sue almost wished she 
would. 

The day was bright and sunny, and Sue 
tried hard to feel as if she were going to have 
a great and glorious time; yet when the hour 
came at which she had promised to go to the 
hotel, she felt rather as if she were going to 
execution. She hung round the door of her 
mothers room. Could this be Sue, the found¬ 
ling, the deserted child of cloudy British 
princes ? 

“ If you need me, Mamma, I won’t go! ” 
she said several times; but Mrs. Penrose did 
not notice the wistful intonation in her voice, 
and she had not yet become accustomed to 
needing Sue. 

“No, dear!” she said. “Run along, and 
have a happy day. Lily and Katy will do 


132 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


all I need.” Then, with an impulse she 
hardly understood herself, for she was an 
undemonstrative woman, she added: “ Give 
me a kiss before you go, Susie ! ” 

Sue hung round her neck in a passion¬ 
ate embrace. “ Mamma ! ” she exclaimed, 
“ Mamma! if I were very, very wicked, could 
you forgive me ? — if I were very dreadfully 
wicked ? ” 

“I hope so, dear!” said Mrs. Penrose, 
settling her hair. She had pretty hair, and 
did not like to have it disarranged. “ But 
you are not wicked, Sue. What is the mat¬ 
ter, my dear ? ” 

But Sue, after one more almost strangling 
embrace, ran out of the room. She felt suffo¬ 
cated. She must have one moment of relief 
before she went. Dashing back to her room, 
she flung herself upon her journal. 

“I go ! ” she wrote. “ I go because I have 
sworn it, and I may not break my word. It 
is a dreadful thing that I do, but it is my fate 
that bekons. I don’t believe I am a found¬ 
ling, after all, and I don’t care if I am. Mamma 


THE CIRCUS 


133 

is just perfectly sweet; and if I should live, I 
should never, never, never let her know that 
I had found it out. Adieu ! 

“The unfortunate 

“ Susan Penrose.” 

After making a good flourish under her 
name, Sue felt a little better; still, her heart 
was heavy enough as she put on her pretty 
hat with the brown ostrich-feathers, which 
went so well with her pongee dress. At least, 
she looked nice, she thought; that was some 
comfort. 

The circus was a good one, and for a time 
Sue forgot everything else in the joy of look¬ 
ing on. The tumbling! She had never 
dreamed of such tumbling. And the jump¬ 
ing over three, four, six elephants standing 
together! Each time it seemed impossible, 
out of the question, that the thing could be 
done. Each time her heart stood still for an 
instant, and then bounded furiously as the 
lithe, elastic form passed like an arrow over 
the broad brown backs, and lighted on its 


34 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


feet surely, gracefully, with a smile and a 
courtly gesture of triumph. That one in the 
pale blue silk tights — could he really be hu¬ 
man, and go about on other days clad like 
other men? 

Then, the wonderful jokes of the clown ! 
Never was anything so funny, Sue thought. 
But the great, the unspeakable part, was 
when the Signora Fiorenza, the Queen of 
Flame, rode lightly into the arena on her 
milk-white Arabian charger. Such beauty 
Sue had never dreamed of; and, indeed, the 
Signora (whose name was Betsy Hankerson) 
was a handsome young woman enough, and 
her riding-habit of crimson velvet, if a little 
worn and rubbed, was still effective and 
becoming. To Sue’s eyes it seemed an im¬ 
perial robe, fit for coronations and great state 
banquets, or for scenes of glory like this. 

Round and round the Signora rode, bend- 
ing graciously from the saddle, receiving with 
smiling composure the compliments of the 
clown. 

“Well, madam! how did you manage to 
escape the police ? ” 


THE CIRCUS 


135 


“ The police, sir ? ” 

“Yes, madam! All the police in Chester— 
and a fine-looking set of men they are—are 
on your track.” 

“Why, what have I done, sir, that the 
police should be after me ? ” 

“What have you done, madam? Why, you 
have stolen all the roses in town and put them 
in your cheeks, and you Ve stolen all the dia¬ 
monds and put them in your eyes; and worse 
than that! ” 

“Worse than that, sir?” 

“Yes, madam. You ’ve stolen all the 
young fellows’ hearts and put them in your 
pocket.” Whack ! “ Get up there, Sultan ! ” 

And he smacked the white horse with his 
hand, and the Signora cantered gaily on. 
This was delightful; and it was all true, Sue 
thought, every word of it. Oh, if she could 
only look like that, what would she not give? 

But now, a new wonder ! The Signora had 
leaped lightly to her feet, and was standing 
on the back of the fiery steed, always gallop¬ 
ing, galloping. She was unfastening the gold 
buttons of her riding-habit; it fell off, and she 


136 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


stood transformed, a wonderful fairy in gold- 
spangled gauze, with gold slippers, and a 
sparkling crown — had she had it on all the 
time under her tall hat ? — set in her beauti¬ 
ful black hair. The clown shouted with glee, 
and Sue could have shouted with him: 

“ Glory hallelujah ! See the fireworks! 
Oh, my! somebody get my smoked glasses; 
she puts my eyes clean out. Smoked glass, 
ladies and gentlemen, five cents a piece! 
You ’ll all go stone-blind if you try to look 
at her without it.” 

The music quickened its time, the snow- 
white steed quickened his pace. The Signora 
called to him and shook the reins, and the 
good beast sprang forward in response. Faster 
and faster, louder and louder, till the air was 
palpitating with sound, and that glittering 
figure flashed by like a fiery star. And now 
two men in livery came running out, holding 
a great ring of living flame. They sprang 
up on two stools. They held the ring steady 
while the flames leaped and danced, and Sue 
fancied she could actually hear them hiss. 
The clown shouted and waved his hat; the 



VI' THE CIRCUS. 













THE CIRCUS 


139 


ring-master cracked his whip; the music 
crashed into a maddening peal; and with a 
flash and a cry, horse and girl dashed through 
the circle of fire. 

It was over. The flames were gone. The 
Signora was once more seated, cantering easily 
round the ring, bending again to the clown’s 
remarks. But Sue still sat breathless, her 
hands clasped together, her eyes shining. 
For a time she could not speak. At last she 
turned to Clarice with burning cheeks and 
fluttering breath. 

“ Clarice, from this moment that is what I 
live for! I can do that, Clarice, I know ; I 
feel that I can. Do you suppose she would 
take me as a pupil ? Do you think she 
would? If I can do that just once, then I 
can die happy ! ” 

“ How you talk, Sue Penrose! ” said Cla¬ 
rice. “The idea! Who ever heard of a 
young lady going into a circus? Say, don’t 
look over opposite. Those horrid Hart boys 
are over there, and they Ve been staring at 
you as if you belonged to them. Such im¬ 
pudence ! ” 


CHAPTER IX 

THE LONELY ROAD 

HE day of the circus was not a 
happy one for Mary Hart. She 
watched Sue go down the street, 
and her heart went out toward her friend. 
What a darling she was! How pretty she 
looked, and how well the plumed hat set off 
her delicate, high-bred face, and the little air 
she had of owning the world and liking her 
possession! Now that there were no mincing 
steps beside her, she walked with her own 
free, graceful gait, head held high, eyes bent 
forward, ready for anything. 

“ She ought really to be a princess,” thought 
humble-minded Mary ; and in her glow of ad¬ 
miration she did not see the troubled look in 
Sue’s bright eyes. 



140 




THE LONELY ROAD 


141 


The day went heavily. The boys, too, went 
off to the circus in the afternoon. Mary 
might have gone with them, but she had been 
given her choice between this treat and the 
concert that was coming off a week or two 
later, and had chosen the latter. If she and 
Sue could have gone together with the boys, 
that would have been another matter. She 
longed to tell the boys her secret, and beg 
them to keep an eye on Sue, in case she 
should get into any trouble. Several times 
the words were on the tip of her tongue, but 
the thought of her promise drove them back. 
She had promised in the solemn school-boy 
formula, “Honest and true, black and blue”; 
and that was as sacred as if she had sworn on 
any number of relics. There was a dreadful 
passage in “ Lalla Rookh ” : “ Thine oath ! 
thine oath ! ” 

She and Sue had decided long ago that 
they would not take oaths, but that a promise 
should be just as binding. The promise lay 
heavy on Mary’s heart all day. She found it 
hard to settle down to anything. Sue’s face 
kept coming between her and her work, and 


142 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


looked at her from the pages of her book. 
Her imagination, not very lively as a rule, 
was now so excited that it might have been 
Sue’s own. She saw her friend in every con¬ 
ceivable and inconceivable danger. Now it 
was a railway accident, with fire and every 
other accompaniment of terror. She could 
hear the crash, the shrieks, and the dreadful 
hiss of escaping steam ; could see the hideous 
wreck in which Sue was pinned down by 
burning timbers, unable to escape. Now a 
wild beast, a tiger or panther, had escaped 
from his cage and sprung in among the terri¬ 
fied audience of pleasure-seekers. She saw 
the glaring yellow eyes, the steel claws. This 
time she screamed aloud, and frightened Lily 
Penrose, who, luckily, came over at that very 
moment to ask advice about the cutting of 
her doll’s opera-cloak. Mary forced herself 
to attend to the cloak, and that did her good; 
and there was no reason why Lily should not 
be made happy and amused a little. Then 
there were some errands to do for her mother, 
and then came her music lesson; and so, 
somehow or other, the long day wore away, 


THE LONELY ROAD 


H3 


and the time came for the arrival of the circus 
train from Chester. The time came, and the 
train with it. Mary heard it go puffing and 
shrieking on its way. She stationed herself 
at the window to watch for Sue. Soon she 
would come by, twinkling all over, quicksil¬ 
vering with joy as she did when she had had 
a great pleasure — making the whole street 
brighter, Mary always thought. But Sue did 
not come. Five o’clock struck; then half-past 
five; then six. Still no Sue. In an anguish 
of dread and uncertainty, Mary pressed her 
face against the pane and gazed up the fast- 
darkening street. People came and went, 
going home from their work; but no slight, 
glancing figure came swinging past. What 
had happened ? What could have happened ? 
So great was Mary’s distress of mind that she 
did not hear her mother come into the room, 
and started violently when a hand was laid on 
her shoulder. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Hart, “ I think the 
boys must have missed the train. Why — 
why, Mary, dear child, what is the matter ? ” 
for Mary turned on her a face so white and 
wild that her mother was frightened. 


H4 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Mary!” she cried. “The boys! Has— 
has anything happened ? The train —” 

“ No, no!” cried Mary, hastily. “ It is n’t 
the boys, mother. The boys will be all right. 
It’s Sue — my Sue ! ” 

Then it all came out. Promise or no prom¬ 
ise, Mary must take the consequences. On 
her mother’s neck she sobbed out the story : 
her foolish “solemn promise,” the day-long 
anxiety, the agony of the last hour. 

“Oh, what can have happened to her?” 
she cried. “ Oh, Mammy, I’m so glad I told 
you ! I’m so glad -— so glad ! ” 

“ Of course you are, my dear little girl,” 
said Mrs. Hart. “And now, stop crying, 
Mary. Thank goodness, there’s your father 
driving into the yard this moment. Run and 
tell him ; he will know just what to do.” 

The glory was over. The scarlet cloths 
and the gold spangles had disappeared be¬ 
hind the dingy curtains ; the music had gone 
away in green bags; and the crowd poured 
out of the circus, jostling and pushing. Sue 
was walking on air. She could hear nothing 


























THE LONELY ROAD 


147 


but that maddening clash of sound, see no¬ 
thing but that airy figure dashing through the 
ring of flame. To do that, and then to die 
suddenly, with the world at her feet — that 
would be the highest bliss, beyond all other 
heights; or — well, perhaps not really quite 
to die, but swoon so deep that every one 
should think her dead. And then, when they 
had wept for hours beside her rose-strewn 
bier, the beautiful youth in pale blue silk 
tights, he with the spangled velvet trunks, 
might bend over her — having read “Little 
Snow-white ” — and take the poisoned comb 
out of her hair, or — or something—and 
say — 

“ Ow ! ” cried Clarice, shrilly. “ That hor¬ 
rid man pushed me so, he almost tore my 
dress. I think this is perfectly awful! Say, 
Sue, let’s go and see the Two-headed Girl. 
We Ve lots of time before the train.” 

Sue for once demurred ; she did not feel 
like seeing monstrosities; her mind was filled 
with visions of beauty and grace. But when 
Clarice pressed the point, she yielded cheer¬ 
fully ; for was it not Clarice’s party ? But 


148 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


already the glow began to fade from her 
sky, and the heavy feeling at her heart to 
return, as they pushed their way into the 
small, dingy tent, where the air hung like a 
heavy, poisonous fog. 

It happened that they were just behind a 
large party of noisy people, men and women 
laughing and shouting together, and the 
showman did not see them at first. They 
had made their way to the front, and were 
gazing at the two slim lads who, tightly laced 
into one crimson satin bodice, and crowned 
with coppery wigs, made the Two-headed 
Girl, when the showman — an ugly fellow 
with little eyes set too near together — tapped 
Sue on the shoulder. 

“ Fifty cents, please,” he said civilly enough. 

Sue looked at him open-eyed. 

“ Fifty cents,” he repeated. “ You two 
come in without payin’. Quarter apiece, 
please.” 

Sue put her hand to her pocket, which held 
both purses (Clarice had no pockets in her 
dresses; she said they spoiled the set of the 
skirt), but withdrew it in dismay. The 


THE LONELY ROAD 


149 


pocket was empty ! She turned to Clarice, 
who was staring greedily at the monstrosity. 
“Clarice!” she gasped. “Clarice! did you 
— have you got the purses ? ” 

“ No,” said Clarice. “ I gave mine to you, 
to put in your pocket; don’t you remember ? ” 
“ Yes, of course I do ; but — but it is gone ! 
They are both gone ! ” 

“ Come, none o’ that! ” said the man. 
“You’ve seen the show, and you’ve got to 
pay for it. That’s all right, ain’t it? Now 
you hand over them fifty cents, little lady; 
see ? Come! I can’t stand foolin’ here. I 
got my business to attend to.” 

“ But— but I have n’t it! ” said Sue, grow¬ 
ing crimson to the roots of her hair. “ Some¬ 
body — my pocket must have been picked ! ” 
she cried, as the truth flashed upon her. She 
recalled the dense crowd, the pushing, the 
rough lad who had forced his way between 
her and Clarice just at the doorway. 

“ Oh, Clarice,” she said, “ my pocket 
has certainly been picked ! What shall we 
do?” 

“ What shall we do ? ” echoed Clarice. 


150 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“ Oh, Sue, how could you ? I don’t see why 
I let you take my purse. There was a ten- 
dollar gold piece in it. I might have known 
you would lose it! ” And she began to whim¬ 
per and lament. 

This was poor comfort. Sue turned from 
her friend, and faced the angry man bravely. 

“ I am very sorry,” she said. “ My pocket 
has been picked, so I cannot pay you. We 
did not know that we had to pay extra for 
the side-shows. I hope you will excuse — ” 

“ Not much I won’t excuse ! ” said the man, 
in a bullying tone, though he did not raise his 
voice. “You ’ll pay me something, young 
ladies, before you leave this tent. I ain’t 
runnin’ no free show; this is business, this is, 
and I’m a poor man.” 

Sue looked round her in despair. Only 
vacant or boorish faces met her eyes; it was 
not a high-class crowd that had come to see 
the Two-headed Girl. Suddenly a word of 
Mr. Hart’s flashed into her mind like a 
sunbeam: 

“If you are ever in danger away from 
home, children, call a — ” 


THE LONELY ROAD 


151 

“Is there a policeman here?” she asked 
eagerly. “ There must be one outside, I am 
sure. Will you call him, please ? ” 

“ No; there ain’t no policeman ! ” said the 
man, quickly. He glanced warily about 
him, and added in a conciliatory tone: 
“There ain’t no need of any policeman, 
young ladies. I guess we can settle this 
little matter right now, between ourselves, 
friendly and pleasant. You step right in this 
way, out of the jam. There ’s a lady here ’ll 
be real pleased to see you.” 

He half led, half pushed, the frightened 
girls into an inner compartment of the tent, 
where a stout, greasy-looking woman was 
counting greasy coppers into a bag. The 
woman looked up as they entered, still count¬ 
ing : “ Seventy—seventy-five—eighty—and 
twenty’s a dollar. What’s the matter, Ed ? ” 
“ These little ladies got their pockets picked, 
so they say! ” said the man, with a wink. 
“ They ’re real ladies; any one can see that 
with half an eye. They don’t want to rob a 
poor man like me. Maybe they’ve got some 
jew’lry or something they’d like to give you 


52 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


for the money they owe. You see to ’em, 
Min; I got to go back.” 

With another wink at the woman, and a 
leer at the children which was meant to be 
attractive, he slipped out, and left them alone 
with the stout woman. 

“ Well ! ” she began, in a wheedling voice, 
“ so you had your pockets picked, my dears, 
had you? Well, now, that was a shame, I 
should say ! Let me see ! ” 

She advanced toward Clarice, who re¬ 
treated before her, cowering in a corner and 
crying: “ I have n’t got any pocket; it’s her! 
She took my purse, and now she ’s lost it. 
Oh, dear! I wish we had n’t come ! ” 

“ Let me see, dear,” said the woman. 

She felt Clarice all over with swift, prac¬ 
tised fingers. 

“ Sure enough, you ain’t got no pocket,” 
she said. “ I thought you might be makin’ a 
mistake, you see. There ! why, what 5 s this ? 
Stand still, ducky ! I would n’t hurt ye for the 
world; no, indeed—such a sweet, pretty young 
lady as you be. Ain’t this a pretty chain, 
now? and a locket on the eend of it—well, I 
never! It ain’t safe for young ladies to be 


THE LONELY ROAD 


153 


goin’ round alone with such a lot of jew’lry. 
Why, you might be murdered for it, and laid 
welterin’ in your blood. I guess I ’ll take 
this, dear, to pay for the show; it ’ll be safer 
for you goin’ home, too. What’s this, again ? 
gold stick-pins? Well, now, I call them dan¬ 
gerous ! I don’t see what your ma was 
thinkin’ of, lettin’ you come out rigged up 
like this. I ’m doin’ you a kindness takin’ 
’em off’n ye; they might cost ye your life, 
sure as you stand here. There’s a terrible 
rough set o’ folks round these grounds, spe¬ 
cially come night.” 

All the while she was talking she was 
quietly stripping Clarice of her trinkets. 
Clarice was too frightened to speak or move ; 
she could only moan and whimper. But after 
the first moment of stupefaction, Sue came 
forward with flashing eyes and crimson 
cheeks. “How dare you?” she cried. 
“ How dare you steal her things? Her fa¬ 
ther or Mr. Hart—Mr. George Hart of 
Hilton — will send you the money to-morrow, 
everything we owe. You shall not steal our 
things, you wicked woman ! ” 

The woman turned on her with an evil 


54 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


look. “ Highty-tighty ! ” she said. “Ain’t 
we fine, miss ? I would n’t talk so free about 
stealin’, after you stealin’ our show, sneakin’ 
in and thinkin’ you’d get it free. No you 
don’t! ” And she caught Sue as she tried to 
slip past her out of the tent. “ Let’s see 
what you’ve got, next.” 

“ Police ! ” cried Sue. “ Help ! police ! ” 
Instantly the woman’s hand was over her 
mouth, and she was held in a grasp of iron. 

“ You holler ag’in, and I ’ll strip the clothes 
off yer back ! ” she hissed. “ Hold yer tongue, 
or I ’ll call Ed. He won’t stand no foolin’ ! ” 
Sue struggled fiercely, but it was of no use. 
The woman shifted her easily to one arm, 
and with the other hand searched her pocket. 

“Not even a handkerchief!” she said. 
“ No jew’lry, neither. Well, your mother’s 
got sense, anyway. Hallo ! here ’s a ring, 
though. Guess I ’ll take that. Le’ go, sis, 
or I ’ll hurt ye.” 

“It — it ’s not my ring!” gasped Sue, 
shaking her head free. “ It ’s hers — my 
friend’s. Don’t take it! ” 

“ Guess it’s mine, now ! ” said the woman, 


THE LONELY ROAD 


155 


with a chuckle. She forced back the girl’s 
slender fingers, and drew off the gold mouse¬ 
ring. 

“There! now you can go, dears; and next 
time, you take my advice, and get some of 
your folks to take you to the circus. Ah ! and 
be thankful I ’ve left you them pretty hats. 
I know a little girl as would be pleased to 
death with that hat with the feathers; but 
you might take cold if I let ye go bare¬ 
headed, and I’m a mother myself.” 

Trembling, half fainting, the girls found 
themselves outside the tent. The grounds 
were well-nigh deserted, all the spectators 
being gone. Here and there a group of 
stragglers leaned on the railings of the neigh¬ 
boring fence, smoking and talking. Rough¬ 
looking men were at work about the tents, 
and some of them looked curiously at the 
girls as they hurried along. Neither spoke. 
Clarice was still whimpering and crying under 
her breath. Sue’s eyes were blazing; her 
cheeks felt on fire. She ran hastily across 
the grounds, dragging Clarice after her by 
the hand. She felt every moment as if they 


156 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


misfht be seized and carried back to that hor- 

o 

rible den. Suppose the man should be com¬ 
ing after them now ! He might put them 
in prison, and her mother would never know 
where she was. She choked back the sob 
that rose in her throat. On, on, as fast as 
feet could fly! At last the palings were 
reached and passed. Now they could stop to 
draw breath, for they were on the highroad, 
and out of sight of the hated inclosure. Pant¬ 
ing, Sue leaned against the fence, and waited 
till she should have breath enough to speak 
some word of encouragement to her compan¬ 
ion. No one was in sight; there was no 
sound save the crickets keeping time in the 
grass. All was as peaceful and serene as if 
there were no dreadful things or wicked peo¬ 
ple in the world. They were not far from the 
station now, and once in the train for home, 
with the friendly conductor, who knew her and 
would take charge of them both — 

Then, suddenly, a new thought flashed into 
Sue’s mind, and struck ice into the fever of 
her blood. How long had they been in that 
dreadful place? How was it that no one was 


THE LONELY ROAI) 


57 


to be seen going toward the station, of all the 
throng that had come up with them in the 
train ? 

“ Clarice !” she gasped. “I am—afraid 
—we may miss the train. We must run. It 
is n’t far now. Run as fast as you possibly 
can!” 

Clarice answered with a sob ; but she began 
to run as well as her foolish dress and shoes 
would let her. But another answer came at 
that moment: a whistle, long and clear, loud 
at first, then growing fainter and fainter till it 
died away. In desperation the girls flew on 
along the road — to reach the station and find 
it empty ! The long curve of the rails stretched 
away toward home. The train was gone! 


IO 


CHAPTER X 

ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 

IX o’clock was supper-time in the 
little town of Chester, so the usual 
loungers had left the station as soon 
as the train departed ; and by the time the 
girls arrived it was deserted, even by the 
ticket-seller. No one was in sight; at least, 
they saw no one. They were too much ab¬ 
sorbed in their trouble to notice two faces that 
peeped at them for a moment round the cor¬ 
ner of the station, and then vanished. They 
were alone, six miles from home, with no 
money. What were they to do ? 

Clarice broke out in tearful reproaches: 

“Sue Penrose, you have brought us to this! 
It is all your fault! I never should have 

158 



ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


159 


thought of coming up here if it had n’t been 
for you.” 

Sue looked at her, but made no reply. 
Clarice’s eyes dropped under the steady 
look; she faltered, but hurried on: 

“ And losing all my money, too! If you 
had n’t lost my money, I should not have 
been robbed of my beautiful jewelry — all I 
had in the world ! and it was worth lots and 
lots.” 

Sue, in bitterness of spirit, thought, 
“ How about the diamond chain ? ” but she 
said nothing. She felt, suddenly, many years 
older than Clarice. Was this a girl of fifteen, 
whimpering like a baby? Was this the friend 
for whom she had given up Mary ? 

“And how are we ever to get home?” asked 
Clarice, in conclusion. 

“We must walk ! ” said Sue, briefly. 

“Walk!” shrieked Clarice. “Sue Penrose, 
are you crazy? It ’s twenty miles, if it ’s a 
step! ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Sue. “ It’s a short six 
miles.” 

“ That ’s just as bad! ” moaned Clarice. 


i6o QUICKSILVER SUE 

“ You know I should die before we had gone 
a mile; you know I should, Sue ! Is n’t there 
some one we can borrow money from ? Can’t 
we go to the hotel and telephone to somebody 
at home ? ” 

They might indeed have done this, but in 
her excited state Sue could not think it pos¬ 
sible. Her high-strung, sensitive nature was 
strained beyond the possibility of sober judg¬ 
ment ; she could only act, and the action that 
began instantly was the only one that she 
could think of. Besides, to see more stran¬ 
gers, perhaps meet with more insults—never! 
They must walk home; there was no other 
way; and they must start this instant. 

“ I am sure you can do it, Clarice,” she said, 
speaking as cheerfully as she could. “ You 
can take my arm, and lean on me when you 
are tired; and every little while we can sit 
down and rest. Come! we must start at 
once; it will be dark before we get home, 
as it is.” 

Clarice still protested, but yielded to the 
stronger will, and the two girls started on 
their lonely walk. 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 161 

As they turned their backs on the station, 
a head was cautiously advanced from behind 
the building ; a pair of sharp eyes followed 
the retreating figures for a few moments, then 
the head was as cautiously withdrawn. 

The road from Chester to Hilton was a 
pleasant one. On one side was the railway, 
with the river beyond; on the other, green 
meadows rolling up and away to the distant 
hills. There were few houses, and these scat¬ 
tered at long distances. To Sue the road 
was familiar and friendly enough ; but to 
Clarice it seemed an endless way stretching 
through an endless desert. She was thor¬ 
oughly frightened, and her blood was of the 
kind that turns to water; very different from 
the fire that filled Sue’s veins and made her 
ready to meet an army, or charge a windmill 
or a railway-train, or anything else that should 
cross her path. 

Over and over again Clarice lamented that 
she had ever come to Hilton. 

“ Why did I come to this hateful, poky 
place?” she wailed. “ Aunt Jane did n’t 
want me to come. She said there would n’t 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


162 

be anybody here fit for me to associate with. 
Oh! why did I come?” 

“ I suppose because you wanted to ! ” said 
Sue; and it might have been Mary that 
spoke. 

“ Come, Clarice,” she went on more gently, 
“ we might as well make the best of it. Let’s 
tell stories. I ’ll begin, if you like. Do you 
know about the Maid of Saragossa? That 
is splendid ! Or Cochrane’s ‘ Bonny Grizzy ’ ? 
Oh ! she had to do much worse things than 
this, and she never was afraid a bit — not a 
single bit.” 

Sue told the brave story, and the thrill 
in her voice might have warmed an oyster; 
but Clarice was not an oyster, and it left her 
cold. 

“ Grizzy is a horrid, ugly name,” she said. 
“ And I think it was real unladylike, dressing 
up that way, so there! ” 

“ Clarice ! ”— Sue’s voice quivered with in¬ 
dignation,—“ when it was to save her father’s 
life ! How can you ? But perhaps you will 
care more about the Maid of Saragossa.” 

But after a while Clarice declared that the 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 163 

stories only made her more nervous. She 
was unconscious of the fact that they had 
carried her over two miles of the dreaded six. 

“ Besides,” she said peevishly, “ I can’t 
hear when you are talking, Sue. Listen ! 
I thought I heard footsteps behind us. I 
do ! Sue Penrose, there is some one follow¬ 
ing us ! ” 

Sue listened. Yes, there were footsteps, 
some way behind. “But, my dear,” she said, 
“ this is the highroad ! Why should they be 
following us ? People have a right to walk 
on the road — as good a right as we have.” 

They stopped a moment, instinctively, and 
listened; and the footsteps behind them 
stopped too. They went on, and the steps 
were heard again, light yet distinct, keeping 
the distance between them, neither more nor 
less. 

Clarice grasped Sues arm. “ They are 
tramps or robbers, Sue ! We are going to be 
murdered. Oh, I shall scream ! ” 

“ You will not scream ! ” said Sue, grasping 
her arm in return, and resisting the impulse 
to shake it. “You are talking nonsense, 


164 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Clarice ! I believe — I believe it is nothing 
in the world but an echo, after all. If it 
were not for this fog, we could see whether 
there was any one there.” 

She looked back along the road, but the 
river-fog was rising white and dense, and 
closed in behind them like a curtain.. 

“ They can’t see us, anyhow, whoever they 
are ! ” said Sue. “ Why, it’s exciting, Cla¬ 
rice ! It ’s like the people in the forest in 
‘ Midsummer-Night’s Dream.’ If we were 
only sure that these were nice people, we 
might call, and they could answer, and hunt 
round for us, and it would be fine.” 

“ Oh, it’s awful! It’s just awful! ” moaned 
Clarice; and she shook with real terror. 
“And the worst of it is, I can’t walk any 
more. I can’t, Sue! It ’s no use! I am 
going to faint—I know I am.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Sue, stoutly, though her 
heart sank. “ Keep up a little, Clarice, do! 
There is a watering-trough a little farther on, 
and we can bathe our feet. That will be a 
great help; and we must be nearly half-way 
home now.” 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 165 

But tight lacing and tight shoes are not 
nonsense. They are very real things, and 
poor Clarice was really suffering more than 
Sue had any idea of. The stitch in her side 
was not imaginary this time. She stopped 
involuntarily to draw breath; and the foot¬ 
steps behind them stopped too, and went on 
when they did. There was no longer any 
doubt; the girls were being followed. 

Clarice began to cry again ; and Sue set 
her teeth, and felt that a crisis was coming. 

‘‘Clarice,” she said, “let me see if I can 
carry you! I think I can ! I know the 
way Sir Bedivere did with King Arthur: he 
made broad his shoulders to receive his 
weight, you know, and round his neck he 
drew the languid hands — kind of pickaback, 
you see. You are not heavy; I think I can 
do it! ” 

And she actually took Clarice on her back, 
and staggered on perhaps a hundred yards 
— till they both came to the ground, bruised 
and breathless. 

“ I ’m going to die! ” said Clarice, dog¬ 
gedly. “ I won’t walk another step. I may 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


166 

just as well be murdered as plain die. I — 
can’t see! ” and the poor girl sank down, 
really half fainting. 

Sue set her teeth hard. She dragged Cla¬ 
rice back from the road, and propped her 
against a tree, then took her stand in front 
of her. She felt no fear ; the quicksilver ran 
riot in her veins. If she only had her dag¬ 
ger, the good sharp dagger paper-knife that 
she had worn in her boot for two whole 
months, while she was playing cow-boy ! It 
hurt a good deal, and made holes in her 
stockings, so she had given it up. What 
would she not give for it now ! Or if she 
had something poisoned that she could hand 
to the people when they came up,— like Lu- 
crezia Borgia,— and see them drop dead at 
her feet! But she had nothing ! Stop! yes ! 
her hat-pin, the hat-pin Uncle James had sent 
her from Russia ! Carefully, with a steady 
hand, she drew out the long, sharp steel pin, 
and felt its point; then set her back against 
the tree, and waited. 

The footsteps behind the fog-curtain hesi¬ 
tated, stopped altogether. There was a si- 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 167 

lence, but Sue’s heart beat so loud, the sound 
seemed to fill the air. All at once, from the 
opposite direction came another sound, the 
sound of horses’hoofs, the rattle of wheels; and, 
as if at a signal, the footsteps came on again, 
quickened their pace, -were close at hand. 
Two figures loomed through the white fog ; 
paused, as if reconnoitering in the dim half- 
light. Then, at sight of Sue standing alone 
before her prostrate companion, they broke 
into a run, and came up at racing speed, 
panting. 

“ Anything wrong ? ” asked Tom. 

“ Because we ’re right here! ” said Teddy. 

“ Right here, Quicksilver! ” said Tom. 

The hat-pin dropped from Sue’s hand. A 
great sob rose and broke,— only one ! — and 
then — oh ! it did n’t matter now if she was 
getting to be a big girl. Her arms were 
round Tom’s neck, and her head was on 
his good broad brotherly shoulder, and she 
was crying and laughing and saying, “ Oh, 
Tom ! Oh, Tom ! ” over and over and over 
again, till that young gentleman began to be 
seriously alarmed. 


168 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


“Isay!” he said; “I would n’t, Quick¬ 
silver ! Come! I would n’t if I were you! 
Teddy, you ’ve got the handkerchief, have n’t 
you? I had the peanuts, you know.” 

But Teddy, who was going to be a sur¬ 
geon, was stooping over Clarice with keen 
professional interest. 

“We might haul her down to the river and 
put her head in ! ” he said. “ This hat won’t 
hold water any more; will yours ? I say! 
don’t they still bleed people sometimes, when 
they have n’t got salts and things ? My knife 
is just as sharp ! ” 

Poor Clarice started up with a faint scream. 
Altogether, these four were so absorbed that 
they never heard the approaching wheels, 
and Mr. Hart almost ran over them before he 
could pull up his horse. 

“Hallo!” he said. “What upon earth — 
now, Mary, Mary, do be careful, and wait 
till I — Dear me, sirs! What a set of 
children! Stand still, Jupiter!” 

For Mary had scrambled down among 
wheels and legs, and had thrown herself 
upon Sue and Tom; and Teddy, abandoning 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 169 

Clarice, exhausted himself in a vain endeavor 
to get his short arms round the three. 

“ Oh, Mary, Mary ! is it really you ? Can 
you ever forgive me ? ” 

“Sue! Sue, my Sue, don't talk so, dear! 
It is all my fault, for not telling Mammy this 
morning. Oh, Tom, you blessed boy, I 
might have known you would take care of 
her! ” 

“Young people," said Mr. Hart, bending 
over from the wagon, “perhaps if you would 
kindly get in, it might facilitate matters, and 
you can continue this highly interesting con¬ 
versation as we go along. Other girl faint? 
Hand her here, Tom ! Put your arm round 
my neck, my child — so ! there we are ! ” 

They jogged along in silence for a few 
minutes. Sue and Mary had nothing to say 
at first — in words, at least. They sat with 
their arms round each other’s neck and their 
heads together. Now and then one would 
make a little murmur, and the other respond; 
but for the most part they were still, too full 
of joy to speak. 

“What happened, Tom?” asked Mr. Hart, 


70 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


when he thought time enough had elapsed to 
quiet the excitement a little. 

“Why, sir,” said Tom, “we saw the girls, 
of course; but then we lost sight of them after 
the circus, — I don’t know how ” (Sue shud¬ 
dered and Clarice moaned), — “ so we went 
straight to the station. So when they did n’t 
get there in time for the train, we thought 
we ’d better wait and see how things were. 
So we followed them along — ” 

“ Oh, Tom, we were so frightened! ” cried 
Sue. “ Of course you did n’t know how 
frightened we were, Tom — but I had my 
hat-pin all ready to stick into you! ” 

“No! had you?” said Tom, chuckling. 

“ You young ninny ! ” said his father. 
“ Why did n’t you join the girls, instead of 
hanging behind and scaring them half to 
death ? ” 

Tom hung his head. “I — it was awfully 
stupid! ” he said. “ Because I was a fool, 
sir, I suppose, and thought — ” 

“ Because /was a fool, Mr. Hart! ” said Sue. 
“ Because I had been wicked and hateful and 
ungrateful, and a Perfect Pig, and he knew it! ” 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 171 

Mrs. Hart sat at her window, sewing her 
seam and listening to the music she loved 
best, the music of children’s voices. There 
were five of them, her own three and the 
two Penroses ; and they were all sitting on 
the broad door-step, husking sweet corn and 
talking. Sue had just come over; she had 
been helping Katy, who had a lame arm. 
She looked pale and grave, for the adventure 
of two days before seemed still very near; 
yet her eyes were full of light as she looked 
from one to the other of the children, gazing 
as if she could not get her fill. Now and then 
she and Mary held out a hand and exchanged 
a silent squeeze that meant rivers of speech; 
but somehow Tom seemed to be doing most 
of the talking. 

“ Look at that! ” he said, holding up an 
ear like glossy ivory, every row perfect as a 
baby’s teeth. “Is n’t that bully? Save the 
silk, Sue and Lily! We want to make wigs 
for the harvest feast to-night.” 

“ Oh, tell me! ” cried Sue, her eyes kin¬ 
dling. “ A harvest feast ? What fun ! ” 

“Why, has n’t Mary told you? You and 


172 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Lily are coming to tea, you know, and we 
thought we would make it a harvest tea. So 
we are all to wear corn-silk wigs, and we ’re 
going to put the candles in Jack-o’-lanterns 

— little ones, you know; squashes, of course, 
or apples.” 

“Apples will be best!” said Mary. “I 
have some pound sweets all picked out. 
We meant this for a surprise, you know, 
Tom, but never mind! It’s really better fun 
for us all to know.” 

“ Lots ! ” said Tom. “ I forgot, though, 
about the surprise part. And then — it ’ll be 
full moon — we’ll go out Jack-o’-lanterning, 
and that ’ll be no end; and then Mammy 
says we can roast chestnuts, and Father 
has the bonfire all ready, and we ’ll have a 
celebration. A Quicksilver Celebration, eh, 
Sue ? ” 

“Oh, Tom!” said Sue. “Not Quicksilver 
any more; just stupid, stupid, grubby lead 

— and rusty, too ! ” 

“ Lead does n’t rust,” said Teddy, gravely. 

“This lead does ! And — I’ve got some¬ 
thing to read to you all. It is part of my 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


173 


penance, Mary. Yes, I will ! It is n’t all 
true, but part of it is.” 

She drew a letter from her pocket (it was 
written on pink paper, scented with cheap 
scent), and began to read: 

“ Miss Clarice Stephanotis Packard presents her 
compliments to Miss Susan Penrose, and tells her 
that I am going home to-morrow with my Papa, and 
I never shall come to this mean place any more. It 
is all my fault for assoshating with my soshal in- 
pheriars, and if you had n’t have poked your nose 
into my afairs, Miss Penrose, and put your old candy 
in my pew, I shoud not have been robbed and most 
murderd. The girl here says I could have the 
law of you to get back the money my mouse ring 
cost,—” 

“ What girl ? ” asked Mary. 

Sue blushed hotly. 

“ The — the chambermaid,” she said. “ She 
— Clarice has made a kind of companion of 
her. She is n’t a very nice girl, I ’m afraid.” 

Then resuming the reading — 

“but Papa says he will get me a new one, and I 
shall see that nobody gets that away from me. You 


11 


174 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


never will see me again, Sue, but you will have 
those common Harts; I supose they will be glad 
enouf to take up with you again. 

“So I remain, Miss Penrose, 

“ Yours truly, 

“ Miss Clarice Stephanotis Packard.” 

Sue’s eyes remained fixed on the paper; 
her cheeks glowed with shame and mortifica¬ 
tion ; she could not meet her friends’ eyes. 
There was a moment of dead silence; then 
came a sound that made her look up hastily, 
blushing still deeper. 

“ Why! why, you are all laughing! ” she 
cried. 

“My dear, of course we are laughing! ” 
cried Mary, catching her in her arms. “What 
should we do but laugh ? And we are glad to 
take up with you again, are n’t we, boys ? ” 

“ Rather!” said Tom. “Why, Sue, it’s been 
only half living without our Quicksilver.” 

“ Have you really missed me?” cried poor 
Sue. “ Oh, Tom ! Of course I know Mary 
has, because I know how wretched I have 
been, really, all the time, even at first, when I 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


75 


did n’t know it. But you, too, and Teddy ? 
Oh, I am so glad ! so glad! And now there 
are five of us, are n’t there, Lily ? ” 

Lily answered with a warm caress. She 
knew privately that she was the happiest of 
the five, but she did not know how to say it. 

“ Five of us ! ” echoed Teddy. “ I say ! we 
ought to have a name. The Frisky Five! 
No ! that is n’t good. Somebody else try! ” 

“ The Festive Five! ” suggested Tom. 

But Mary shook her head. “I have it!” 
she said. “ Join hands, all! the Faithful Five ! 
Hurrah for us ! ” 

The five children stood up and held 
hands, looking at one another with a certain 
solemnity. 

“ The Faithful Five! ” they repeated. 
“ Hurrah for us ! ” 

And Teddy added : “ But we ’ll make a toast 
of it to-night with shrub — lots of shrub ! ” 

“ And now we must make the wigs! ” said 
Mary. “We ’ll do that in the barn chamber, 
so that we sha’n’t mess with the silk.” 

“And then can’t we climb a tree?” said 


176 


QUICKSILVER SUE 


Sue, plaintively. “ I have n’t climbed a tree 
for a month, Mary ! I will be Isabella of 
Buchan, if you like, and you can all capture 
me and put me in the cage in the greening- 
tree.” 

“ All right!” “ Hurrah ! ” “ Come on ! ” 

The joyous voices died away ; and Mrs. 
Hart took off her glasses and wiped her eyes, 
but not before a tear had fallen on her work. 
“ Bless them ! ” she said. “ And hurrah for 
them! This may have been a good thing, 
after all.” 

An hour later Sue was bending once more 
over her journal ; but this time Mary’s arms 
were round her, and Mary’s eyes were look¬ 
ing over her shoulder as she wrote. 

“ My troubles are over, and they were all 
my own fault; but now I am happy, and no¬ 
thing but death can part me and Mary. I 
have the dearest and best friends in the 
world — ” 

“ Oh, don’t, Sue ! ” said Mary. 

“ I shall! ” said Sue, and wrote on : 

“And I have told Mamma all about every¬ 
thing, and she has forgiven me, and now we 


ALL ’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 


177 


are all different, and she is perfectly lovely, 
and we understand all about things together, 
like Mary and her mother. And I hope I 
am going to be a better girl now all my life; 
but still the name I shall always love best is 
that I am Mary’s own 

‘Quicksilver Sue.’” 












































































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